Miss Mia Sopaipilla toasts her tummy on one of our new backyard walls.
Miss Mia Sopaipilla may find her daily backyard promenade going on hiatus for a while.
The weather wizards say a “potent cold front” is hooking up with a “fast-moving storm system” and we may be compelled to endure a short stretch of weather that is something other than 65° and sunny.
O, the agony. Still, if whatever we’re served comes with free water I’m all for it.
Expectations are that this first taste of winter weather will have a short shelf life here. Our readers to the north seem to be in for some heavy shoveling, however. Be judicious; give some thought to the lower back.
Speaking of shoveling, Mike Ha’pence just got tossed onto the growing pile of GOP Pestilential Candidates Who Are Not Orange and Under Indictment. Gosh, Mother, it makes a man’s eyes damp, for sure.
I was not expecting to see 16° on the old weather widget when I stumbled into the kitchen this morning.
Six-fuggin’-teen? On April 5? Was Dante right? Hell is cold? Can we crank up the heat a smidgen, please, Beelzebub, you old devil? I know, I know, I’ve been bad, but shit, if I wanted to freeze my huevos off before coffee I’d still be doing my sinning in that hillside hacienda outside Weirdcliffe, where I had a stove, ax, and woodpile.
Still, could be worse. I spoke with Consigliere Pelkey yesterday and he said that I-80 was closed between Laramie and Cheyenne due to vile weather, th’owin’ a hitch inta his gitalong as regards a doctor’s appointment in the capital city.
My old Bicycle Retailer comrade Steve Frothingham checked in from the People’s Republic of Boul-Daire to report that it was “puking snow” in his neck of the Woke Woods.
We passed a few pleasant moments discussing jurisprudence and journalism in Manhattan and agreed that if a courtroom artist were required we wanted Ralph Steadman, since S. Clay Wilson is unavailable, being dead.
Today, meanwhile, rather than skulk around indoors and risk absorbing some news, I decided to motor around and about The Duck! City, scratch a few chores off the to-do list, wait for the desert to assert itself.
By midafternoon, the temperature finally inched into the low 40s, and I finally ventured out for a leisurely 5K on the trails, though asthma and allergies (juniper, poplar, elm, etc.) had me sounding like a secondhand accordion in the mitts of an unruly middle-schooler with a tin ear.
Tonight the wizards are calling for another hard freeze. I didn’t hear them calling yesterday, but I’ve heard them this time and unplugged the two hoses I use to water the trees.
“These temperatures are cold enough to kill most early season vegetation,” says the National Weather Service.
Good. Maybe they’ll croak the junipers, poplars, and elms. A man needs some breathing room.
The transition from winter to spring seems a bit blurry this year.
On yesterday’s ride I was wearing a Sugoi watch cap under my old Giro helmet; Castelli wind vest and long-sleeve Gore jersey over a long-sleeve Paddygucci base layer; winter gloves; heavy Pearl Izumi tights over Castelli bib shorts; and Darn Tough wool socks in Gore-Tex Shimano shoes.
And I still got cold. Should’ve added a Buff to keep the windpipe insulated.
Looking into the Elena Gallegos Open Space from Spain and High Desert.
Happily, I was riding a Soma Saga touring bike, which with fenders, rear rack, tool bag, Zéfal pump, lights, bell, and bottle goes about 32 pounds. So we’re talking minimal self-inflicted wind chill on the flats and ascents.
And today? The first day of “spring?” Sheeyit.
It was snowing, lightly, when I struggled out of bed consumed by desire for hot coffee. Herself was already at her computer, earning. Miss Mia Sopaipilla was making her usual morning noises, which sound like a cross between her name (“Meeeeeeee-yah!”) and a demand for attention (“Meeeee-now!”).
Somehow she manages to find the precise point in El Rancho Pendejo from which her voice will project to every corner of the house. She should be the audio engineer for Radio Free Dogpatch, is what.
Given the conditions breakfast was medium-heavy. Two cups of strong black coffee, thick slabs of whole wheat toast slathered with butter and jam, one tall mug of strong black tea, and oatmeal with fruit and nuts.
Now it’s 40° at 10 a.m. The trash and recycling bins have been emptied and retrieved and we seem to be between drizzles, so some class of healthy outdoor exercise is indicated, if only to get away from the cascade of “news” items about Paris Hilton, boneheaded banking practices, and whether Adolf Twitler will get a long-overdue perp walk.
I will never be smart. But occasionally I am correct.
On Wednesday, I had been thinking about going for a run, but decided to gallop around Elena Gallegos Open Space on a cyclocross bike for 90 minutes or so because Thursday’s weather was looking iffy and I’d probably need to run then.
On Thursday, the weather was indeed iffy — as in raining — and I considered taking the day off entirely. But then I reconsidered and Herself and I went for a run, because Friday was shaping up to be even worse.
And now, here it is Friday, March 17, and it is snowing. From several directions at once, too.
Emboldened by a short streak of rightness, I announced with authority, “This almost never happens.”
And boom, just like that I was back to being not-smart. Also, wrong.
This is why we take notes. I glanced back through a half-dozen old training logs and found reports of March snow in 2019 and 2022, and as late as April 28 (2017 and 2021).
The forecast for St. Patrick’s Day — and for several days afterward — is for more of the same. I guess it’s a good thing I made a big pot of soup last night, because it sure doesn’t look like we’ll be getting a Paddy melt today.
Her Majesty recovers from the stress of entertaining.
With one birthday down and one to go, things are back to what passes for business as usual around El Rancho Pendejo.
As you can see, Miss Mia Sopaipilla is greatly relieved. She is a creature of habit and not a fan of company, especially when said company evicts her from her bedroom.
And yes, of course Miss Mia Sopaipilla has her own bedroom. What are we, Nazis?
Meanwhile, our friendly local roof wizards have waved their wands overhead, just in time for what looks like a bit of spillover from the atmospheric river giving California such a brutal hosing.
Jiminy Chris’mus, South Lake Tahoe is starting to look like the ice planet Hoth, only with leaking roofs, exploding propane tanks, and rental cars stuffed into snowbanks, abandoned by fleeing tourists.
Here, the worst we can expect is a bit of drizzle, maybe a soupçon of snow. And of course, the usual seasonal allergies as everything from azaleas to zinnias checks the long-term forecast and decides to scatter pollen far and wide, and all at once, too.
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