Category: Spring

Spring, Route 666

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments
Spring 2025, hold the shorts and sunscreen.

When I awakened my watch read 3:33.

“That’s a half-666,” I thought drowsily, trying to recall the details of a dream I’d been having. Something about needing to be somewhere, late as usual, and rooting through a duffel full of colorful short-sleeve shirts and shorts because of course I was butt-ass nekkid.

Then it came to me. Spring. First day of. I awarded myself a soupçon of spring break and dozed until 5.

When I dragged ass out of the sack to pull on some duds I was not looking for a flowered Paddygucci shirt and shorts, because spring in New Mexico debuted at 22°, which called for pants, long-sleeve shirt, and a light fleece vest.

Miss Mia Sopaipilla had already greeted the vernal equinox by blowing a hairball and carpet-bombing the litter box. Herself was clocked in at work, hoping to cash a few more checks before the X-Man decides Sandia National Labs doesn’t need any librarians to tell his DOGEbags where they might find the owner’s manuals for the Death Ray.

Just wing it, fellas. Hit that big red button on the grip and see what comes out the other end. Probably shouldn’t look down the barrel while you’re doing it. Move fast, break things, etc. Whoops, there goes Paris. Serves ’em right for wanting their statue back.

Yeah, Mr. Whitey! Yeah, science! Political science, anyway. Maybe political science fiction.

Time of the season

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 17 Comments
Herself’s Soma Double Cross, ready for its 2024 debut.

The surest sign that spring has sprung is Herself telling me to grease up her old two-wheeler ’cause she’s ready to ride.

That this announcement coincides with temperatures in the upper 70s is not, well, a coincidence.

Herself rides a Soma Double Cross. I bought the frameset back in 2006, and Old Town Bike Shop in Bibleburg tricked it out smartly with bits of this and that, some of them mine, some of them theirs. The drivetrain is a mix of Sugino, FSA, and Shimano 105/LX, yielding a low end of 34×32, which probably should be 34×34, or even 30×34, but I haven’t gone there yet.

Not on her bike, anyway. I love me some 30×34 on my New Albion Privateer and Soma Saga (the disc-brake version).

But then I’m a señor citizen, not some spry young tomato like Herself. She can tough it out. I’ll wheelsuck her and provide helpful hints from her slipstream.

Seasonal prep this year was pretty basic. I checked that everything shifted (105 brifters) and braked (Suntour cantis) as it should, lubed the chain, and replaced the 700×32 Vittoria Randonneur Cross Pros with a pair of Schwalbe Little Big Bens. Run those 38mm fatties down around 35-40 psi and they buff some of the rough spots off The Duck! City roads. I’ve got ’em on both Sagas and they appear to have eternal life. They’re easy on, easy off, too, which is handy in goathead country.

She could use some new handlebar tape, but that can wait, as can a spit-shine for her brass Crane bell, which she rarely uses. That thing could wake the dead. Even the self-deafened AirPlodders dive for the ditches when they hear it tolling for them.

I’ve been giving a little love to neglected bikes this week — the Rivendell Sam Hillborne and DBR Axis TT have both gotten out in the fresh air — but tomorrow I’ll be riding my own Soma Double Cross. Now, you wanna talk about a low low end? How’s 24×34 sound to you? Gimme a tailwind and I can climb a telephone pole.

Don’t tell Herself. If she senses the slightest weakness she’ll put me in The Home.

O, booger

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 2 Comments
Snot funny. …

April’s knocking on the door with a jumbo box of Kleenex in one hand.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything. Gesundheit.”

Swear to Dog, everything’s springing to desperate life at once. Lawn, maple, lilacs, wisteria, ornamental plum, Chinese pistache, a few of the bulbs we assumed the landscapers had done for last summer. Not even a layer of gravel over weed fabric can keep those hardy little bastards buried.

Have you noticed that no one puts flowers on a flower’s grave?

With a red-flag warning posted I thought it prudent to give everything a good soaking yesterday. It was like handing Hunter S. Thompson an entire sheet of blotter acid and a quart of Wild Turkey to wash it down, then watching him fire up the Great Red Shark with the notion of driving the pace car at the fabulous Mint 400. Stand back!, etc.

Should I have been surprised to wake up honking my horn? No. Happily, Herself recently made a Kleenex run so I probably won’t have to resort to sleeves or dish towels for a day or two.

Nearly there now. …

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 9 Comments
The ornamental plum is getting busy in the backyard.

The vernal equinox arrives at 9:06 p.m. Dog time, and while we will probably be in bed by then, thoughts of warmer weather, shorts and T-shirts, and buds a-poppin’ should make for pleasant dreams.

No, not those buds. We abandoned that stuff long before it became legal and all the sissies decided it was finally safe to have a taste.

It’s still not what you’d call toasty out there. I can’t say I’m eager to bare my pale knees to the breeze. Still, 52° with a dearth of 50-mph winds will do for now.

Humming along

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 3 Comments

Little buggers are camera-shy.

Yesterday we finally saw the first hummingbirds of spring 2023.

We’d heard the little buzzbombs elsewhere in the ’hood — Zzzzz! Whizzzz! — but until yesterday none had appeared at our backyard feeders. We’d actually hung up the feeders once and then taken them down again due to a lack of customers.

I’ve been hearing and seeing quail for a couple weeks now but the hummers have proven elusive. And who can blame them? With weather advisories ping-ponging between fire alerts and freeze warnings this springtime has been screwier than GOP pestilential theater.