Category: Memories

Unreal estate

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments
The Adventure Cycling Association HQ in Missoula.

Looks like the tussle between the Empire and the Rebellion is coming down to … a vote?

What, no starships, no light sabers, not even a Silca in the spokes?

Well, good on ’em, sez I. May the best argument win.

The Empire’s case for selling the Adventure Cycling Association’s HQ can be found on the ACA website.

The Rebellion’s case against the sale I have cut-and-pasted below, from email, because it’s the argument I support.

A quick disclaimer: I probably shouldn’t be weighing in here. I’ve let my ACA membership lapse, and most of the people I remember from the time I spent reviewing bicycles in my own peculiar way for Adventure Cyclist have left the organization.

But I remember fondly my years orbiting the periphery of the outfit as a sort of weirdo-at-large. I also remember a dark time when, if I found myself short of funds due to questionable financial practices and yet desirous of strong drink and/or powerful drugs in quantity, I would pawn one of my handguns to tide me over until payday.

That sort of behavior, like selling your home and then renting space in it, is not smart. But at least I could always get my handgun back without much fuss.

So, if I had a dog in this hunt, it would bark, “NO!”

With that said, up the rebels! Their argument follows:

Dear Members and Friends of Adventure Cycling,

If you are a current member of Adventure Cycling, you may have recently received a letter from the organization’s new executive director, Andy Williamson, urging members to vote for the sale of our Missoula headquarters at 150 E. Pine Street. The organization has received an offer of $2.55 million for the building and property. While we appreciate the financial challenges facing the organization, we believe selling this building—the debt-free, member-funded heart of Adventure Cycling—is the wrong solution at the wrong time.

Our goal is not confrontation but clarity. Below we address several points made in Andy Williamson’s message and explain why keeping the headquarters is central to Adventure Cycling’s recovery and long-term vitality.

1 · Financial Stability Requires Rebuilding, Not Liquidation
Andy Williamson states the $2.55 million sale would provide a financial“runway.” In truth, this is a one-time infusion that consumes a core endowment asset with limited long-term benefit. Independent analyses from former staff and Life Members demonstrate that Adventure Cycling can balance its budget without selling the building, through right-sizing the staff, leasing unused space, restoring donor confidence, and rebuilding programs. The building itself can generate revenue via tenants while continuing to serve as the organization’s public face. Once sold, that stream—and the underlying equity—are gone forever.

2 · An “Underutilized” Building Is a Symptom, Not the Cause
Andy’s letter cites an ‘underutilized, aging building’ that houses only seven staff. Yet that is a management choice, not an inherent flaw. Adventure Cycling’s earlier success stemmed from a dedicated staff working together under one roof, where spontaneous collaboration and shared purpose fueled innovation. Bringing staff back to Missoula—full- or part-time—would revive this culture and improve member service. National studies confirm that in-person collaboration increases creativity and performance, benefits that cannot be replicated through a fully remote structure.

3 · Deferred Maintenance Is Manageable
The building is fully paid for and exempt from property tax. Historical operating costs average roughly $25,000 per year for utilities, insurance, and routine upkeep. Moreover, the Life Member Fund and donor community stand ready to support maintenance when engaged transparently. Selling a building because of manageable upkeep costs is fiscally shortsighted.

4 · Membership Decline Reflects Lost Engagement, Not “Aging Out”
Leadership attributes falling membership to demographics. In fact, ACA’s own data show that the older cycling cohort is growing, not shrinking, nationwide. Membership losses track instead with reduced programs,rising dues, and the diminished services now offered through a remote staff . Restoring value—through vibrant tours, high-quality publications, and responsive outreach—will rebuild membership far more sustainably than selling headquarters property.

5 · Mission and Identity Depend on Place
For nearly 34 years, 150 E. Pine Street has welcomed cyclists from around the world. It is part museum, part visitor center, and wholly symbolic of Adventure Cycling’s mission to inspire, empower, and connect people to travel by bike. Relinquishing ownership of this “Mecca of bicycle travel” would fracture that identity. The building embodies continuity, credibility, and community trust—qualities no lease-back agreement can replace.

6 · Constructive Alternatives Exist
Rather than liquidating assets, ACA should implement the actionable recovery strategies already outlined by longtime members and advisors:

  • Re-establish balanced budgets where expenses match income;• Rebuild the interconnected ‘engagement funnel’ of routes, tours, membership, magazine, and advocacy;• Lease unused building space to compatible nonprofits or outdoor businesses;
  • If necessary, borrow short-term funds against the equity of the headquarters building;
  • Launch a donor appeal linked to the 50th Anniversary celebration;
  • Recruit new leadership and board members with proven nonprofit and financial expertise.

These measures strengthen the organization while preserving its heritage and its home.

7 · A Vote NO Is a Vote for Adventure Cycling’s Future
Selling the headquarters might ease today’s cash flow but would undermine tomorrow’s foundation. Adventure Cycling has weathered crises before—each time by relying on the passion, generosity, and ingenuity of its staff and members, not by selling the assets acquired over decades.

We therefore urge every eligible member to vote NO on the proposed. Keep Adventure Cycling rooted in Missoula, where it began and where its mission still thrives.

The fact that ACA was cash positive at year-end 2023 makes this proposed building sale especially troubling. For that reason, the members of Save ACA will be voting NO on the sale of the building.

You have that same opportunity—but timing is critical.If you are not a current member, you must join or renew by 7:59 a.m. Monday, November 3 to be eligible to vote. Voting will take place between 8a.m. November 4 and November 24 through the official voting page.

With respect, determination, and gratitude, the members of Save ACA:

Dan Burden
Lys Burden
Greg Siple
June Siple
Jim Sayer
Sheila Snyder
Cyndi Steiner
Ginny Sullivan
Gary MacFadden

Boo!

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 5 Comments
I always hate having my picture taken.

“My mommy always said there were no monsters — no real ones — but there are.” — Newt, in “Aliens”

Sing it, sister. I see one first thing every morning, if I dare to turn the lights on in the bathroom. And it follows me around all day, until I turn them out again.

Mama said there’d be days like this. I just didn’t think there’d be so many of them.

When did I stop ringing doorbells on Halloween and start answering them? Oh, Lord.

Thanks to outfits cobbled together by me sainted ma I have been a cowboy, Superman, and Mike Nelson from “Sea Hunt,” among other American icons. I even managed to talk mom into helping me suit up as Loadedman, a cartoon character I devised shortly before dropping out of college and going to work as a janitor.

She must’ve been so proud.

As an “adult” I have been a space pirate, Che Guevara, and once, memorably, Jesus H. Christ himself. Indeed, there was a time when I felt all that hair I was sporting limited not only my employment opportunities, but my costume options come All Hallows’ Eve.

All. That. Hair.

Sigh.

I didn’t know shit about limited options back then. Now the menu is down to a single item — basically, “Ugly-Ass Old Bald Dude.” The good news is, all I have to do for that one is get out of bed, take a leak, and put on some clothes.

In the dark, of course. Because there are monsters. I’ve seen them. They live in my bathroom mirror.

Flo turns turtle

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 16 Comments
So happy together — Flo & Eddie and The Mothers of Invention.

Mark Volman, a.k.a. The Phlorescent Leech, or “Flo” for short, has gone west. He was 78.

You may remember Volman from The Turtles. Or p’raps from Flo & Eddie, his two-man band with fellow ex-Turtle Howard Kaylan, a change of identity required in 1970 when they got sideways with their label and were contractually forbidden to perform as either The Turtles or even under their own names.

As a teenage weirdo in the magical Seventies I recall a mentor at the Colorado Springs Sun, Bill McBean, turning me on to Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention — specifically, their “Fillmore East — June 1971” album, which includes, as the wrapup to an insane musical tale of Seattle’s Edgewater Inn, a mud shark, and the Vanilla Fudge, a stellar performance of The Turtles’ No. 1 hit from 1967, “Happy Together.”

“Wow,” sez I, or something very much like that (it was the Seventies, after all). “That’s an excellent take on that old Turtles tune.”

“No shit,” replies Bill. “That’s Flo & Eddie you’re hearing.”

Further explanation was required — thank Dog for mentors — but I eventually came to understand that former Turtles Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan were now Flo & Eddie and rockin’ with The Mothers.

Talk about happy together. It still rocks, a half-century down the road.

Peace to Flo, his family, friends, and fans.

Notes from the road, part 3

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 23 Comments
A soggy “see ya later” to Bibleburg.

I was thrice blessed as I prepared to leave Bibleburg last Wednesday, an hour earlier than I had planned.

First, I had slept in a bed, in a room, not in my car parked in front of the hotel. I gave a thumbs-up to the stealth camper I spotted as I left to get coffee, for hiding in plain sight in the rain-drenched parking lot. But s/he got two thumbs down for being so obvious about it: a towel tucked into the top of a cracked rear window; clothing, water jugs, and other “not a guest here” hints strewn all over the front seats; and so on. Respect your adversary, dude.

Could’ve been a hotel employee, times being what they are. But still, style counts.

Second, the Starbucks across the road had that very morning begun opening at 5 a.m. instead of 6. Ordinarily I brew my own coffee on the road, but lately the hotels inflict these Keurig monstrosities upon us instead of mini-coffeemakers whose carafes can be repurposed for an AeroPress brew.

Pity that the smoke detectors dislike my little MSR IsoPro camp stove. “Outside use only,” kids. Just ask the guest in the Honda Hilton.

And finally, third: I was leaving Bibleburg an hour earlier than I had planned.

I always like leaving the B-burg, and leaving early is even better than not going there at all. I find myself in sympathy with my mom, who when we were transferred there in 1967 looked at downtown through a prism of memory from the 1940s and recoiled.

Yes, they let this work at the Gazette. I guess they really were libertarians.

Ten years later a colleague at the Gazette would say that anything east of Hancock Avenue wasn’t Colorado Springs, and mom would’ve agreed. I certainly did.

In my Gazette years I was living in an old Victorian carved into apartments at Cascade and San Miguel, right next door to The Colorado College, just north of what was still called “downtown.”

But when the O’Gradys first arrived we set up housekeeping east of Academy Boulevard, 3.5 miles into the prairie from my colleague’s Hancock border. Nearly six decades later, South Loring Circle feels almost urban.

The town goes ever on and on, to paraphrase Bilbo Baggins. In this instance toward Kansas, not Mordor, though the differences between the two may be undetectable to political scientists. (Hint: Mordor had mountains.)

I’ve left the place more times than anywhere else, which probably says more about me than it does about B-burg. And this trip I was ready to skedaddle again after just four days. The rain, the postapocalyptic state of the roads, the endless high-speed conga line of traffic — two final tallboys of Starbucks and I was on my way.

• • •

It was hairy from jump. Pitch black and still raining, with fog to boot, and despite mopping all my windows and mirrors with a towel before leaving I was flying blind for a few scary minutes until the a/c defogged the glass. Not optimal when you’re merging onto I-25 from Briargate Parkway at 75 mph with a few thousand of your closest — and I mean closest, as in halfway into the hatchback — friends.

Paging Graham Watson. …

The weather remained gloomy. I didn’t bother putting on sunglasses until I was past Raton. Creeks had become rivers and rivers were inland seas. Ponds appeared magically like Brigadoon. Folks who parked their trailers in low-lying areas found themselves with rudderless houseboats.

There were enough sunflowers at roadside for a regiment of Graham Watsons, guarded by ravens perched on fenceposts. Lots of fat black cattle living large in the tall salad. I fought the urge to stop at McDonald’s and instead yelled “Go home!” at vehicles with Texas plates.

Skidmarks demarking various unscheduled off-ramps to left and right with “Damaged Guardrail Ahead” signs for headstones. A giant shitbox bearing a plate reading “IH8UALL.” Making America great again, one vanity plate at a time.

My Steelman puddle-jumper, sans puddles.

In six hours flat, with one stop for gas, I was back at the ranch. My training-log entry for the day reads, simply, “Nothing.”

But the next day I was on the old Steelman I’d hauled with me to Bibleburg, tooling around the sun-splashed Elena Gallegos Open Space, a smile on my lips and a song in my heart.

Home again, home again, jiggity-jog; the desert’s the place for this salty ol’ dog.

Notes from the road, part 2

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments
The O’Grady family mansion, circa 2025. I like what the latest owners have done with the place.

When someone asks me, “Where are you from?” I reply: “We were an Air Force family. Moved around a lot. I’m not really ‘from’ anywhere.”

But if I am “from” somewhere, it’s probably Colorado Springs.

Several versions of me have lived there off and on since 1967, when the old man got transferred for the final time, from Randolph AFB, Texas, to Ent AFB, Colo.

The Mitchell High School swim team in 1970, the year we went 11-0. Find the dork, win a prize.

Junior-high dork. High-school swimmer, gradually making the transition from dork to drinker and doper. College dropout sampling the blue-collar lifestyle. Rookie newspaperman. Rookie freelancer, freshly married, the two of us trying to make a few bucks while riding herd on my demented mom for free rent in the family castle. Pro freelancer, in our own home, the wife having reinvented herself as a librarian after a whirlwind tour of the University of Denver’s masters program. The drugs were long since in the rear view, and before we left for Albuquerque in 2014 the tonsil polish would be history, too.

I make my tour of duty there about a quarter-century, all told, which may be a long-enough stretch for Bibleburg to qualify as a hometown. For sure I have a love-hate relationship with the place.

And isn’t that practically the dictionary definition of “home?”

The place has a reputation for conservatism, which is ironic, in that the last actual conservative to run the joint was its founder, Gen. William Jackson Palmer, who saw to it that his successors would not be permitted to plant endless hectares of ticky-tacky rooftops and retail on every square inch of the place when he was gone.

Monument Valley Park, briefly the home of the Mad Dog cyclocrosses.

His legacy includes the donation of land for Monument Valley Park, North Cheyenne Cañon Park, Palmer Park, and Bear Creek Cañon Park, all of them stellar places for riding the ol’ bikey-bike or just hanging around in. He founded the Gazette, too, but we can hardly blame him for what happened there.

The place has been a haven for Birchers, Klansmen, and Nazis in my own lifetime, along with various tribes of generic libertarian fuckwits whose fontanelles closed up too soon (see Doug Lamborn, et al.). Indeed, there was a time when our cyclocrosses in Palmer’s parks drew about half the entrants typical of a Boulder or Denver race, because those posie-sniffing tree-huggers were afeared someone might beat some Jesus Goldwater into them if ever they dared venture south of the Palmer Divide.

In the Springs, “conservative” means “penny-wise, pound-foolish,” or in the vernacular, “We ain’t paying for shit until it breaks, and maybe not even then.”

Back in 2010, the city was shutting off streetlights — 8,000 to 10,000 of them — to save money, suggesting that anyone who liked to be able to see the muggers creeping up on them should “adopt” their friendly neighborhood light.

The adoption fee “may be tax-deductible,” one city mouthpiece noted, suggesting donors “consult a tax expert.” Because nobody wants to pay taxes to keep the fucking lights on, amirite?

Part of our old circuit in Bear Creek Regional Park.

During my most recent visit, it seemed nearly every street in town was either broken or being rebuilt. Whether this was due to decades of “conservatism” or the ravages of an unusually wet summer remains a mystery. I know the town pretty well and have more than one way to get from point A to point Z. But this trip all the letters of the alphabet were buried under orange cones.

Happily, Palmer’s parks seemed in great shape as per usual. In Monument Valley Park, I saw hard-hats using the trail-maintenance equivalent of ice-rink Zambonis to groom the goo right out of them.

Classic Bibleburg, man. Can’t keep the lights on, the fascists out, or the potholes patched, but when it comes to Gen. Palmer’s parks, it’s nothing but happy trails to you. He must’ve written it into his will.