The weather wizards were calling for rain yesterday but we got only a wee dribble, just enough to leave visible craters in the dust coating everything.
Whatever, I thought, and scheduled an oil change at the nearby Brakes Plus for bright and early in the morning. Drop off the rice rocket, stroll home, enjoy a leisurely breakfast.
Or not. I awoke to a pissing-down rain, gutters running like creeks, sidewalks like rivers. A full summer’s worth of rain in one day, is what.
Mind you, I’m not complaining. There’s free wifi at the Brakes Plus, and as breakfasts go coffee and yogurt isn’t so bad.
Took a break from Le Tour today, mostly, though I did lend a hand to Charles “Live Update Guy” Pelkey over at Red Kite Prayer as he followed the stage for fun and profit. You already know what happened: Turns out Cav’ don’ need no steenkeeng choo-choo to win stages.
But first I had to shuttle Herself to the Greater Bibleburg Interdimensional Airport once again. This time she’s trading fire for flood, jetting to Maryland to visit family … kinfolks who only just yesterday got their power back on. So, yeah. Good times, is what. She’ll be sampling some Flying Dog ale straight from the source — who knew the outfit was based in Frederick, Md.? — and will report back to us.
Here’s hoping she won’t need an Igloo and a sack of cubes to keep it cold. I bet they’re running short of that sort of thing in my home state.
We even got a little rain today. Not much, but every little bit helps.
Faboo the Fast just about caught everyone napping in the finale to stage 1. The yellow jersey popped off the front, but Peter Sagan was watching and came along for the ride, followed by Edvald Boasson Hagen.
Sagan did the smart thing, which was to stick to Cancellara like a decal until just before the line, then nip around for the win. Mr. Fab’ got second and kept The Big Shirt. Eddie van Hagen held on for third.
The Slovak strongman’s victory celebration was a tad affected, prompting the following tweet from @cycletard: “Memo to Peter Sagan, the Village People want their dance back.” Ouch.
I almost missed the finale — the power went out in a sizable portion of the neighborhood for reason(s) unknown (perhaps Michelle Malkin’s Massey Ferguson diesel dildo overpowered the grid) and Colorado Springs Utilities was estimating it might take a couple of hours to get everyone back on line.
Happily, we had juice for the final kilometers, and I got to see a rare sight indeed — a yellow jersey on the attack. Good times.
Speaking of which, the smoke eaters are making progress on the Waldo Canyon fire. It’s a long way from out, but containment is at 45 percent and some evacuees are getting into their neighborhoods for a look-see. Those who still have homes standing may have to wait a while to take up residence again — some extensive reconstruction of utility infrastructure will be required.
Ordinarily Mr. Boo would be fetching that orange squeaky toy from room to room, demanding playtime (squeaka squeaka squeaka), but it’s too damned hot to play Squeaker of the House today.
Deadlines have been eating up my mornings and record temperatures and smoke have been smothering my afternoons. I had to close all the windows for much of yesterday as a waterless thunderstorm up around Peckerwoodland Park shoved the plume from the Waldo Canyon fire right through downtown Bibleburg.
This morning all the varmints are stretched out on various bits of floor, trying to stay cool. It’s already 82 inside the house, so this is pretty much a lost cause.
Buddy (a.k.a. Mr. Boo) is not amused. Of our three critters he is the one most affected by heat. Turkish just flattens out until he looks like a big white throw rug with blue eyes, turning himself into a radiator. Miss Mia Sopaipilla simply naps more. But Mr. Boo insists on conducting business as usual and it always ends badly.
For example, this morning he was eager for a walk. And for about 30 seconds he even enjoyed it. After that it was just like walking a dog, only in slow motion. I’m going to buy a skateboard and henceforth shall tow him behind me like a hairy, bug-eyed little trailer.
The Waldo Canyon fire, as seen from a couple blocks west of Chez Dog.
Sonofabitch. Now we’ve got a live one encroaching upon greater cosmopolitan Bibleburg.
Dubbed the Pyramid Mountain fire, it started somewhere near Waldo Canyon and is already estimated at some 600 acres. An assortment of mandatory and voluntary beat-it orders are in place for west- and north-siders, but at the moment it seems the prevailing winds are pushing the thing north and west, so Your Humble Narrator is not in danger — at the moment, anyway — of becoming a hot dog, har har.
The fire has been declared a federal emergency, and renowned feddle-gummint rassler Dougie Lamborn (R-Hypocrisy) reportedly “stands ready to assist if federal resources are required.” In light of the serious nature of the event I’ll refrain from delivering the obvious ironic rimshot.
More as we hear it.
• Late update: The fire is now officially named for Waldo Canyon (no “Where’s Waldo? jokes, please), and late word is that it’s torched a couple thousand acres and displaced about as many people. Nobody hurt so far, according to the local rumormongers, which is good. You can replace burned-up people, just like you can replace burned-up stuff, but the process takes longer and the outcome is uncertain.
The winds seem to have died down, but it’s always creepy to look at the sky at 9:30 p.m. and see peach-colored clouds and a moon that looks like an orange slice from some kid’s Halloween candy haul.
