And I was glad I did. I’ve been caught in a loop of Groundhog Rides — basically the same 20-milers over and over and over again — and this was a refreshing change of pace.
There was a slight headwind as I rolled south on the lightly greened Paseo del Bosque trail to I-40, where I hung a right to snap a shot of the Rio Grande from the Gail Ryba bike bridge. More like the Rio Not-So-Grande. Too thick to drink, too thin for swimming.
Pic in hand, I pulled a U and enjoyed a tailwind to the Paseo del Norte trail, then took the usual route back to the rancho, along Bear Canyon-Osuna, up and over I-25, past the golf course and thence to Tramway via Manitoba, and home again home again, jiggity-jig.
Well, that’s not entirely accurate. I had to head south on Tramway to Rover and pull another U to collect enough mileage (kilometerage?) to make the nut.
And then I ate everything in the house and took a shower because hey: It was my birthday. I could do whatever I wanted.
I should’ve taken a picture. It would’ve been one of the few times when someone pointed a lens in Jim’s direction and he didn’t immediately point to his johnson just as the shutter clicked.
Sample photo only. Jethro not included.
Because I was at a celebration of my old amigo’s life. And Jim was in a Chock full o’Nuts coffee can.
It was a nod to “The Big Lebowski,” of course. Also, there were “The Blues Brothers” — brother Larry and Jim’s son, Kelly — who wore dark sunglasses on Saturday as they spoke of their loss to a standing-room-only crowd at the Bull & Bush Brewery in Glendale, Colorado.
Hey, it could’ve been worse. Jim and the El Rancho Delux gang watched a ton of “Miami Vice” Back in the Day®, so it’s nothing short of miraculous that Larry and Kelly weren’t stylin’ like Sonny and Rico.
Me, I went for the “Outside Bought REI and Went to Whole Foods” look: Santa Fe School of Cooking cap, Timberland fleece vest, Patagucchi flannel shirt, Levi’s 505s, Darn Tough wool socks and low-rise Merrell hikers.
One of the many things Jim taught me was how to dress more like Possibility and less like Probable Cause. Another was how many times you can play your favorite Merle Haggard cassette in your own truck without Jim snatching it out of the deck and tossing it out the window at 85 mph somewhere in Utah. (The answer: One time too many.)
Anyway, it was good that I stepped up my fashion game a bit for the celebration of my old friend’s too-short life. Because this wasn’t just the old El Rancho crew, even though we were all in the Bull, shouting at each other over drinks as in daze of yore.
Former Denver Mayor Wellington Webb and his wife, Wilma, were in the house, as was the mayor’s former press secretary, Andrew Hudson, who got us started down memory lane with tales of working (and goofing) with Jim.
Hizzoner likewise delivered a fond remembrance of his longtime fixer, whom he called his “Luca Brasi,” as Jim’s cigar-puffing pals from the Smoking Cave lined up along one wall like an honor guard.
Kelly, Larry, and Andrew Hudson.
For me, the sentimental journey reached its peak when Kelly backstopped Larry as emotion took him off-script during his remarks. Whenever someone told Larry how fortunate Kelly was to have his support after his dad’s sudden passing, Larry replied that it was the other way around. His nephew is a remarkable, self-possessed young man, running smooth on a strong blend of dad and mom.
Mom — the love of Jim’s life, Teri Sinopoli — was in the crowd with her sisters. So were Jim’s sis, Betty Jo, and her husband, Tom; Larry’s wife, Sherry, and their sons, Stefan and Will; Stan the Man; Rudi Boogs and his wife, Tanysha; cousin Guillermo. Lots and lots of cousins, real and aspirational.
I was honored far beyond any merit of mine to be called a brother on Saturday, though anyone who didn’t know the backstory must’ve wondered how this blue-eyed, baldheaded old gabacho with a mug like a dried-up creek bed could’ve been any kind of kin to these beautiful people.
“Oh, one day we thought we smelled a dead raccoon in the attic and found him up there in a nest of old girlie magazines, mumbling something about where was his daddy the mailman. Didn’t seem right, so we brought him downstairs, gave him a little chile. Bad idea. Never feed a stray perro. He ain’t all there, and he’s too often here, like evil tidings from DeeCee.”
I wish Jim’s mom, Lucy, had been there to chide me for making myself scarce in recent years. But she has a lot of mileage on the odometer, even more than the rest of us, and wasn’t up to the journey. And anyway, I wasn’t really a franchise player.
Her son had a deep bench, and never more so than on Saturday at the Bull. Friends and family. Young and old. Colleagues and co-conspirators. Politicos and pendejos. Tales were told; photographs submitted as evidence; the legend rewritten and amplified.
Chris James “Jethro” Martinez always left the light on and the door open. What a blessing it was to have crossed his threshold, to be made welcome, to feel at home; to feel like family.
“What time does the Super Bowl start?” Herself asked.
“Beats me,” I replied.
Can you tell we’re not fans? Of the Chiefs, the Eagles, or football in general?
I used to fake an interest, same way I faked an interest in editing newspaper copy for a dozen years. My people followed the various ball sports, and occasionally rented a motel room for The Big Game, because that way someone else would have to tidy up afterward.
But the Big Game was usually more about acting the fool than it was about football. Just ask the motel housekeepers who had to do the tidying up.
These days I don’t even have to pretend I give a shit. I just decide which bike I want to ride and hope all the fans are already glued to the pregame show(s) before I sally forth.
Today it’s my No. 2 Steelman Eurocross. I rode No. 1 the past few days and hate to show favoritism. But I gotta have some knobbies in case I need to flee the mean streets for the trails. Dog only knows the state of the drivers on Game Day, running low on bean dip and strong drink, weaving off at 20 mph over the limit to the grocery store.
We all have our little routines. Spontaneity, first thing in the morning? No, thank you, please. Predictability is what’s wanted before coffee.
So I arise at stupid-thirty, since that’s how we roll around here. Dress in the dark, because one day this will not be optional. Visit the bathroom. Greet Herself and Miss Mia Sopaipilla. Tidy up Miss Mia’s bathroom and give her a vigorous massage on The Chair of Love.
“Take me out to the ball game.”
And finally, make coffee.
Thus fortified, I usually scan the headlines to inspect humanity’s latest self-inflicted wounds. But lately that feels like rubbernecking at an inner-city ER. Let’s start with something light, shall we?
Jaysis. Even the weather report is all like, “We have good news and bad news.” The good news is that yesterday Herself and I took an afternoon stroll in shorts and T-shirts. The bad news is that high-temperature records are dropping like staffing levels at USAID and if the current precip trend continues we’re likely to be drinking our own wee-wee by March instead of August.
At this point a second cup of coffee is indicated. Black, hold the wee-wee.
Check the email? No joy there. Evil tidings, in fact. Avert the eyes.
Toast, then. With butter and jam. Also, and too, oatmeal, with banana, pecans, cinnamon, brown sugar, maple syrup. Black tea to give the coffee some backup. Play ball with Miss Mia.
Time for The Times? Y’think? And a-one, and a-two, annnnnd. …
Happy happy joy joy to yis all, Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Satanists, pagans, atheists, agnostics, the lot.
Miss Mia Sopaipilla made it a very meowy Christmas about 12:45, blasting us both out of bed with her air-raid siren of a morning voice, a symptom of advancing age and p’raps a bit of related hearing loss. “Arise and serve Me!”
No matter. We fell back to sleep, arose at a more suitable hour, and for reasons known only to Herself — “Well, I had this pan, you see. …” we broke fast with strong coffee, mandarines, and aebleskiver, some delicious little balls of sugar, flour, and fat, fried in butter on the stovetop. Miss Mia got some cream. We don’t hold grudges.
My stepgrandfather, John Jensen, was a Dane, but I don’t recall either him or Grandma Maude making aebleskiver for us when we would visit them in Sioux City. When the blood kin were otherwise occupied John would sneak me hits off his cigar and sips of beer, though. Baby steps. You gotta start ’em young if they’re gonna stick it out.
As we noshed we gave ear to the traditional holiday musical fare — “Merry Christmas from the Family,” Robert Earl Keen; “The Bells of Dublin,” The Chieftains (and friends); ”The Christians and the Pagans,” Dar Williams; “Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis,” Tom Waits — you know, the classics.
Then we unwrapped gifts — AirPods for Herself (she spends a lot of time on the iPhone/iPad, talking to friends, family and colleagues, listening to music or podcasts, watching “SNL,” Stephen Colbert, cute animal videos, etc. — and a couple graphic novels for Your Humble Narrator, among them the complete “Bodies” by the late Si Spencer, a time-traveling whodunit that got turned into a miniseries by Netflix.
Also, an official Guinness Extra Stout T-shirt in medium, because (a) I am no longer extra stout, and (2) a man of any gravity (or its opposite, comedy) can never have too many beer-related garments.
At some point there must be time for fat-burning exercise, because Santa knows we’ve been very, very bad, if only in a strict dietary sense. Also, I want to be able to wear that shirt.
So, go thou and do likewise. Mind the aebleskiver. Also, and too, the Guinness. Though I bet they make that T-shirt in an XXXL, too. Call it an inspired guess.
Mad Blog Media 