Category: Rain

‘What have the Romans ever done for us?’

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 14 Comments
There’s a cat in here some’eres. But where?

Are we going about this whole “new year” thing wrong?

Maybe the new year should kick off with the spring equinox. New life in the offing, and better weather to keep it comfy-cozy.

We were already into the 50s here last March 20. Zach at Two Wheel Drive had found me a Deore derailleur for the as-yet-unbuilt Soma Pescadero, and I went out for a short trail run to celebrate. The next day I was burning up the Elena Gallegos trails on my old red Steelman Eurocross while TWD assembled my new whip. Talk about your bowl of cherries.

Black-eyed peas under construction.

January is usually a bowl of something else altogether. The month is named for the Roman deity Janus, god of change, passages, and beginnings: “Better beef up your kit before you head out that door to start your run, Mr. Not-So-Smarticus. Add a base layer, maybe a jacket and cap, looks like rain.”

When I revisit January in old training diaries I see a lot of short runs in frosty temps. Which is fine, as far as it goes, which is not very. And I’ll probably be doing one of those directly, as we seem to be getting sloppy seconds from the ongoing deluge in California. Just because I have fenders doesn’t mean I want to use them. I like my January showers warm, with the bathroom door closed and a space heater on.

But it’s gonna be extra hard to drag my ass out that door this Jan. 1. El Rancho Pendejo smells like simmering black-eyed peas and ham hock, with baking cornbread soon to lend an aromatic hand, and it’s a good thing I have more than a few keyboards around here because I keep drooling into this one.

Happy New Year to one and all.

• Addendum: The cooking process is greatly enhanced by playing “The Allman Brothers Band: A Decade of Hits 1969-1979” throughout.

Fourth and long

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments
“Holy hell, hon’, better start filling the sandbags.”

Winter finally came a-calling yesterday.

More of a “ring the doorbell and run” deal, actually. Left 0.06 inch of rain on our doorstep instead of a flaming sack of dog shit.

We’ll take it. Don’t gotta stomp it out or nothin’.

Today dawned clear and cold, and the furnace and humidifier were harmonizing on what sounded like some sort of mariachi tune as I awakened just before 4 to “shake hands with the governor.”

“Are you getting up or going back to bed?” Herself asked as she set about her day.

“Back to bed,” I mumbled, and made it so. The next two hours of sleep were top shelf, curled up like an old dog under blanket and comforter. The news cycle can’t get me in there, with the phone locked and in silent mode. No wonder Miss Mia Sopaipilla loves the bed-cave I make for her every morning after coffee. And she doesn’t even read The New York Times.

The press is deep into “The Year in Review” mode now, which reminds me of the last time I went to a Broncos game at the old Mile High stadium, back in the days when the Donkeys would have had their hands full going up against a Pop Warner squad from Saguache.

Anyway, the Donks were getting their asses handed to them, by whom I can’t recall, and though there was plenty of time remaining on the clock, the stands were emptying faster than bladders overloaded by the industrial lager the fans were slamming to drown their sorrows.

In mid-exodus the PA gives out with a cheery, “And don’t forget to watch ‘Bronco Replay'” on whatever local TV channel was playing the piano in that whorehouse. After which some tosspot a few tiers downhill from us lurches to his unsteady feet, bellows, “Wasn’t it bad enough the first time?” and then tumbles down the stairs.

All these years later three hundred and sixty-five steps seems like quite a tumble, especially since I’m not wearing any protective gear — like, say, sinuses lined with cocaine, a beer-swollen liver, and a couple dozen extra elbees of adipose tissue.

So please excuse me if I skip the replay. It was bad enough the first time.

After the deluge

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 16 Comments
Drip, drip, drip.

I’m glad to have logged a couple leisurely hours on the bike yesterday, because today is looking decidedly less velo-friendly.

Something blew me out of a sound sleep around 3 a.m., and surprise, surprise, it was a powerful wind bearing water in quantity. Stripped a metric shit-ton of needles off the pines, slapped one wind chime off its hook, pitched a plastic bucket across the yard, and dumped about 0.30 inch of agua fria in under three hours.

That would be 0.12 inch short of normal … for the month.

We’ll take it. Since we shut down the irrigation system I’ve been watering by hand, and that burns a lot of daylight that I could use for other pasatiempos. Like, say, cycling.

The bike I was riding yesterday, a Soma Saga, sported fenders that I did not need. Long sleeves, knee warmers, yes; mudguards, no. The only evidence of Thursday’s 0.44 inch of precip’ was a little more sand scattered across the foothills streets.

Today might be a very different story, if I were sucker enough to give it a go. Oh, sure, at the moment the sun is shining brightly, and the cul-de-sac is slowly drying out.

But there’s still a 50 percent chance of rain resuming around 10:30. And while I welcome it on the trees’ behalf, I can do without it on my person, thanks all the same. I like my showers hot.

A bouquet for November

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments
Never surrender.

Gloomy. Chilly. And yet the roses persist.

Is this some class of literary device? Might there be some deeper significance here?

Who knows? Not me, chief. I just work here.

It’s true that we finally caved and turned on the furnaces, and even so the uniform of the day now includes pants, long sleeves, and occasionally a fleece vest.

Here comes the sun, etc.

Too, Thursday brought a chilly rain, and plenty of it, so much so that I never considered going out for a ride or even a run (I ran on Tuesday, and again on Friday, and twice a week is my limit on that nonsense).

Happily, gloom and chill tend to be shortlived in the desert. Hell, these days the sun doesn’t even peek round the Sandias until shortly after 8 a.m. And boom! There the sonofabitch is, right on time. I’m no gardener, but I’m trying to cultivate patience.

Is that some class of literary device, with some deeper significance?

Beats me. I’ll leave that to others. I just like sunshine and flowers.

Sun, screened

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 1 Comment
Hold the SPF 50 and gimme a slicker, please.

A spot of seasonal weather has rumbled into town, and thus the cycling is contraindicated for the moment. The gods are bowling up there and though I have three bikes with fenders, I’m not exactly eager to deploy them.

My last few outings have been on the coolish side, but dry. Arm and knee warmers have become part of the uniform of the day. Haven’t gone to tights, tuque, and full-finger gloves yet, but I can see that gloomy country from here.

It’s fair, as Thomas McGuane has taught us. (He has a new book out, in case you’re interested.) The fall to date has been spectacular, and as we know, anybody who chooses to live in a desert shouldn’t bitch about getting free water from the sky.

Unless you’re homeless and using an arroyo to hide your proud-ofs from the Chamber of Commerce street-sweepers. That’s a free ticket for a fast trip to the Rio, and it’s hard to hang ten on a shopping cart. Not exactly a day at the beach, as the fella says.

Speaking of street people, letting that orange mold run wild in the East Wing of the White House is like hiring a Central Avenue hooker to give a makeover tutorial to your teenage daughter. Or maybe it’s more like letting a roach design its own motel.

This we have money for. Head Start and food assistance, not so much. Any of you kids out there who want a bite to eat and someone to watch over you should probably sign on with the War Department, start sinking boats in a bigger bathtub.

Jesus H. Christ. Did the Heritage Foundation rewrite all the civics books when I wasn’t paying attention? Have the three branches of government become the Surprise Party Department, the Practical Joke Department, and the Fairy Godmother Department?*

If so, I wish the last would put down her knitting and do something nice for a change.

* A tip of the old war bonnet goes out to Major John Hay Beith, a.k.a. Ian Hay, via Robert A. Heinlein’s “Glory Road.”