Category: Spring

Blue skies, smiling at me

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 19 Comments
Enjoying a hint of springtime on the back deck.
Enjoying a hint of springtime on the back deck.

No, that’s not the stairway to heaven — that’s a shot of the pergola over our back deck, taken from a folding chair while the cats chase bugs around the yard. Alas, those beautiful blue skies are supposed to give way to showers this weekend, a little gift from the gods to the body-armored knuckleheads who live for manhandling their double-boingers across the wet clay trails of Palmer Park, where their tracks will remain for alien archaeologists to ponder some eons hence.

Speaking of dark clouds, some of you may wonder why I haven’t weighed in on the debate over “enhanced interrogation techniques” that has been so much in the news of late. It’s because in a sane society no debate should be required. Torture is wrong, period, end of story. And anyone who says otherwise should be tortured.

And speaking of torture, there is much bicycle racing coming to flyover country here as April segues into May. There’s the 31st edition of La Vuelta de Bisbee, which starts today in the Arizona town of the same name, and the 23rd annual Tour of the Gila, which kicks off April 29 in Silver City, N.M. I covered LVDB once, back in the day, but I’ve never been to the Gila. VeloNews.com’s grand poobah, Steve Frothingham, is headed that way again this year, so look for lots of word count, pix and maybe even some video.

Good day sunshine

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments
Beer-thirty. Well, actually beer-twenty. But who's counting?
Beer-thirty. Well, actually beer-twenty. But who's counting?

Another brutal two-day stint in the editorial barrel is slouching toward its finale, and being as today is 4/20, I cracked a beer at 4:20, just ’cause. Hey, it’s not like a guy needs to be stone-cold sober to commit misdemeanor journalism, ’cause nobody bothers to read or write any more. It’s all thumbs on CrackBerries and up arses.

I took the cats out for an airing when the temps topped the mid-60s and did a spot of editing in the sunshine. Those glossy MacBook screens really pop outdoors, and so do those nasty blisters a peckerwood like me gets after about 15 minutes of solar roasting following a winter of discontent, so ours was a short stint under the Big Yellow Ball, much to the cats’ dismay.

The Turk’ in particular loves the outdoors, and when he’s not busy trying to murder something he rolls ecstatically about on the toasty sidewalk, thunking his noggin against the concrete with every flip. Thock, thock, thock. No wonder his mental processes seem a bit scrambled from time to time.

We’re supposed to be enjoying a stretch of sunshine and 70s here, so I hope to emulate the Turk’ and spend more time rolling about in the sunshine, though I hope to keep my cranium off the concrete. I’m getting to the point where if John Goodman should happen to see me (not likely) he might bellow, “Jeez, look at that fat bastard.” I stretch the design limits of my cycling kit much more and it will go from red and black to pink and gray.

Getting back to journalism: I can’t help but notice that the Pulitzer committee overlooked me again this year. When, oh when, will they announce a Sister Mary Stigmata Memorial Award for Filthy Mouth and Bad Attitude?

Rock’s not dead! Just brain-damaged

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 15 Comments
Flowers that reared their pretty heads a bit early found themselves bowed by the weight of our most recent snow.
Flowers that reared their pretty heads a bit early found themselves bowed by the weight of our most recent snow.

Tyler Hamilton isn’t the only Rock Racing rider to find himself suddenly unemployed. Apparently homeboy Mike Creed is hunting work, too, and not of his own volition — renowned disco-denim maven and working-class hero Michael Testicle showed him the door on April 14, according to nyvelocity.com.

Mike chatted with Steve Frothingham of VeloNews.com this morning, and you can read Steve’s account of their conversation here. That Mike’s former employer continues to stump for a riders’ union is not unlike a tomcat proposing a Society for the Protection of Plump, Juicy and Delicious Little Songbirds.

While he apparently has an offer to race next month’s Joe Martin Stage Race with another team, Mike told me via e-mail that further on down the road he’s thinking about leaping from the titanium frying pan of pro cycling into the Sterno stove of velo-journalism, perhaps with a podcast or Internet radio show. While he considers his options, there’s at least one bright side in being jobless in this sport, in this economy — he won’t have to wear that ugly-ass Schlock Racing kit any more.

Here in Bibleburg, meanwhile, the Storm of the Century mostly passed us by. It snowed all damn’ day yesterday and left maybe three inches, tops. But it’s heavy, wet stuff, and the foliage will appreciate it. Some 75 miles southwest and a couple thousand feet higher among the hillbillies of Crusty County, my man Hal Walter reports five times as much of the white stuff surrounding the world headquarters of Hardscrabble Times and recalls a pair of earlier April storms.

Down here, it’s raining lightly — “a driving rain,” as my man Dr. O’Schenkenstein said. And he should know, because he just spent two hours riding in it. The man himself just appeared at my doorstep, looking as though he had been dipped in shit, and taunted me for cowering indoors like the feeble geezer I am. He has been watching old Paris-Roubaix videos, which will give a man notions.

The calm before the storm

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 3 Comments
Hail. With thunder. And sunshine. Must be April in Bibleburg.
Hail. With thunder. And sunshine. Must be April in Bibleburg.

The weather gods toy with us, like cats: a dash of rain; a soupçon of hail; a low grumble of thunder in the distance. I think I’ll bring the snow shovel indoors tonight so I can find it tomorrow morning. And check the bucket under our roof leak. And fill a couple coolers with ice as a redundancy system for our ‘fridge, which followed the rest of our appliances into early retirement just in time for what’s shaping up like the Storm of the Year. Jesus H. Christ on a flatcar. We need to find us some oil ’round here so’s we kin get us’ns a big ol’ Beverly Hills mansion with a cee-ment pond and appliances that work.

I got in a quick hour on the ‘cross bike this morning while the weather remained semi-springlike. Started out the door with short sleeves, arm warmers and knickers, then reversed direction and added layers; long-sleeve polypro, long-sleeve jersey, full-finger gloves. The NWS said 50-something, but it was not a dry heat.

Thanks to a relentless north wind, the ride was reminiscent of my first race back in 1987, a 40km out-and-back time trial near Strasburg, Colorado — 10 mph out, 30 mph back. I actually checked at one point to see whether I had a brake rubbing. Nope. Wind + lard = 10 mph.

Afterward, it was off to Ranch Foods Direct to stock up on dead animal parts for various soups, stews and whatnot to fend off the cold. That’s how I discovered our out-of-warranty Kenmore was on the blink — by loading $50 worth of meat into a lukewarm ‘fridge. I briefly considered cooking everything at once to keep it from spoiling, but then my cranial 20-watt bulb blinked on — uh, so where do you store the cooked food, Mr. Magic Chef, huh? I will never be smart.

But I can be less stupid. Via the miracle of the cell phone I consulted Herself, who reminded me that Larry’s Appliance had solved a number of issues with the Kenmore without having to resort to big hammers, voodoo or a second mortgage. Rang ’em up, and it just so happened that they had a cancellation and could come over straight away. One bum circulating fan and $112.84 later, the ingredients for posole, vegetable beef soup and a kung pao stir fry are cooling down nicely.

As is the outdoors. Hail again, with lightning this time. I’m off for the snow shovel.