The lads the last time we had the band together in Santa Rosa, circa 2006.
Busy, busy, busy. I know, that’s no excuse — my duty is to bring the snark, 24/7 — but I’ve forgotten where I left it. The ravages of age, don’t you know.
Hell, you’re lucky I’m around at all. I had planned a cycling trip to California — I was gonna hit the road tomorrow, drive to Ely, Nevada, spend the night, then make the final push into Santa Rosa for a week of pedaling around the wine (and beer) country with a couple of old newsie buds.
But midweek I was still feeling the effects of leaving my DNA on the Palmer Park trails, my chiropractor was threatening to tear me down for parts, and there was work to be done over at VeloNews.com.
When Gabriel's horn blow, you better be ready to go.
More rain. Jesus. I like the way it waits until I’m done with work and getting ready for a ride before it starts coming down in torrents.
You may call this egomania, but I know for a fact that the Universe is out to get me. It’s taken my hair, vigor and girlish figure, shunted me into a dying profession and locked me into a political-science experiment gone horribly awry. And now, to add insult to injury, it’s pissing on me.
But KRCC-FM just played Parliament’s “Mothership Connection (Star Child),” so now I feel much better. “If you hear any noise, it’s just me and the boys, hittin’ it.”
Star Child willing, I’ll be hittin’ it tomorrow, when the weather is supposed to be mightily improved. I need miles. One more day stuck inside reading what passes for “news” in this benighted country of ours will have me trying to put a glide in my stride and a dip in my hip so’s I can hitch a ride on the Mothership.
A dog and his desert, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Photo: Peggy Sax
One week ago I’m in sunny Tombstone, Arizona, getting set to enjoy the final leg of the Adventure Cycling Association‘s Southern Arizona Road Adventure, an easy 23-mile spin into Benson. The high will be 64 degrees, and there will be a light tailwind for most of the ride.
Today I’m marking my 56th birthday in gray, frigid Bibleburg. There is snow on the ground and more on the way. The high is expected to approach 42, with a north-northwest wind of 30-35 mph augmented by the occasional 45-mph gust.
Some years back I began mimicking the practice of John Wilcockson of VeloNews, who rides his age on his birthday. But not even Jack London would tackle a 56-mile ride in this crap, unless he were Belgian, in which case we’d have had to read “The Call of the Wild” in Flemish (“Argle bargle Buck schmecka lecka John Thornton.”). No, thank you.
So instead I’ll do 56 minutes on the trainer. That’s almost the same, right? Riiiight.
Six inches of snow — and since I'm male, you just know that looks like a foot to me.
Well, there you have it — six inches of the chilly white stuff. We got bupkis all winter long, but as soon as spring arrives it’s time to break out the rubber boots and snow shovel. The Lord works in mysterious ways and has a twisted sense of humor to boot. Consider the platypus, for instance.
The forecast is for more of the same and then sunny on Thursday. Then we’re right back in the icehouse through Saturday before the sun returns — just in time for me to clock in at VeloNews.com on Sunday.
Meanwhile, we’re looking at highs in the 70s for Tucson and Fountain Hills. I haven’t unpacked my camping gear yet — if I can just get over Raton Pass with the rubber side down I bet you I can be in one place or the other in under 24 hours.
They told me to haul ass and it took two trips. OK, three. Hey, is this an audience or an oil painting?
Ever have one of those days when your head is so far up your ass that you need a Plexiglas belly button to see where you’re going?
I was supposed to do some road cycling through the Air Force Academy with Big Bill McBeef and our mutual friend Deb at 11 a.m. today. I also had a physical-therapy session scheduled at 10 a.m. No sweat, right? Until it turns out that PT was actually at 10:30, so as I’m on the way home I get the word from Herself that Bill and Deb are already at El Rancho del Perro Loco and wondering where the hell am I.
I’m already feeling like an eejit so I tell Herself to cut ’em loose, as their original plan before some stupid fat bastard horned in was to hook up with some other folks along the way and I didn’t want to make them any later than I already had. Naturally, I arrive to find McBeef insistent on getting me out of the house and on the road, come hell or high water. Deb has gone on ahead. We are to chase her down like the Mad Dogs we once were. Time is of the essence. So I rocket around the rancho, hit the inhaler, dredge up bits of kit, snag the bike and off we go.
McBeef has been riding a ton and is keen to take his revenge on me for beating him like once in some nameless race 15 years ago, so he gives it the afterburners and in short order I am flapping in his backwash like a poorly stowed wind jacket, wondering if it’s possible to puke my nuts through my nostrils.
We sweep up Deb at Woodman Road and proceed through the infernal-combustion hell that is northeastern Bibleburg to the Academy, where I realize about a kilometer shy of the south gate that in the rush to get out the door I neglected to grab my driver’s license in order to prove to the guards that I am not a bicycle bomber from Lower Spaminacanistan despite the oddly bulky nature of my black-and-red garb, the keening, incomprehensible sounds issuing from my wind-chapped lips and the steaming blood fountaining from my eyes, ears and various other orifices.
And thus, with a feeble wave of one palsied hand followed by a burp with a lump in it and a tepid dribble down one flabby, unshorn thigh, I turned around to wobble homeward, braving the twin terrors of Academy Boulevard and Woodman Road alone.
Tonight Big Bill McBeef snickers into a wineglass as I gobble Advil like M&Ms and beg the cats for an introduction to Satan so that we may negotiate the fair market value of a battered 1954 soul with some very high mileage indeed, just not lately.
C’mon, Nick, make it 15 years ago, just for a couple of days. Say, anybody ever tell you you look a lot like Tom Waits?
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