Bonus non-political content

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 45 Comments
The first blue-skies shot of August.

Six months.

That’s how long it’d been since I last visited a bike shop. Until yesterday, when I popped round to Two Wheel Drive to return the Surly Disc Trucker I reviewed for Adventure Cyclist magazine.

Happily, the lads have not been wasting away, praying for a visitation by a stove-up senior citizen on a fixed income with the spending power of a junior partner in a corner lemonade stand.

They have product to sell — including a freshly scored size run of the 2021 Kona Unit X — and shortly after I lurched in, so did a couple of actual customers, while another pair queued up outside (house rules).

Manager Zach took a minute to pitch me on the joys of the Kona Electric Ute, even offering to turn me loose on the floor model. But I passed, figuring his time was more profitably spent with the paying clientele. Zach owns an E-Ute, and says it makes a fine car replacement, suitable for fetching groceries and transporting rug monkeys.

Our cars are both paid for, and we don’t use them much; we’re even getting a discount from our insurance company for letting them rot in the garage. Still, I think it would be interesting to have a go at a one-car life.

The biggest hurdle for me is (wait for it) the advancified futuristical Jetsonian technology. Sitting here at the desk I can see eight battery-powered devices without swiveling my head. I don’t really want any more.

Tell you what I do find interesting: The Soma Pescadero. Which of course is completely sold out.

Until a new run arrives sometime in November or December, I’m compelled to contemplate a cousin, the New Albion Privateer, the only other rim-brake frame available from the Merry Sales folks.

Merry’s Stan Pun says the Privateer “is like a [Soma] Double Cross with a lower BB height, longer chainstays and heavier tubes.” At a glance it seems to slot in neatly between the Pescadero and Saga. As the owner of one Double Cross and two Sagas, I’m intrigued.

And of course what we really need around here is another bicycle. N+1, baby, N+1.

The fire next time

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 13 Comments
That may be Cthulhu’s eye up there in the clouds.
Or it could be the moon.

This is what the eastern sky looked like around 7:30 last night.

“No more monsoons! The end is nigh! Prepare ye for mostly sunny and warmish!”

Which it was. Eighties as I pedaled off nine-ish this morning, and it only got hotter.

Later in the afternoon Herself popped round to the Dark Tower for a window chat with her mom, but couldn’t stick it out more than a few minutes.

Don’t expect her to have a window chat of any duration with Louie Gohmert, though. Not even if the dumb sonofabitch wears a diving helmet and a diaper over his Bug-hole.

Fender amped

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 44 Comments
It was cloudy around the Crest, but the real action was behind me down below, as I found out when I headed for the barn.

The monsoons have draped themselves over us like a soggy cotton shirt.

It would be nice if the Universe would rearrange its watering schedule. A little bit here and a little bit there instead of all at once, like emptying a thundermug out of a second-story window onto a warbling drunkard.

But nobody in his right mind snivels about rain in the high desert. Not when rivers are drier than a popcorn fart and even the cacti are panting.

I’ve switched bikes — from the Soma Saga (canti) to the Soma Saga (disc) — because the latter still has fenders. I pulled the mudguards and racks off the rim-brake model to make it more of a daily driver than a touring machine.

But the daily driving is different now, so, yeah. I got rained on today. Fenders are your friend.

100 days

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 26 Comments
Is it a sleeping bag if you can’t sleep?

One hundred days. That’s how close we are to the next U.S. presidential election. And in his weekly newsletter, Charles P. Pierce notes:

We are prepared neither for an election in the middle of a pandemic, nor to cope with the mechanisms being constructed to ratfck an election in the middle of a pandemic, up to and including armed and anonymous troopers on the street corner outside the polling place. And, hell, in a country that seems incapable of doing anything of substance any more anyway, learned helplessness is fairly easy to, well, learn.

Helplessness and hubris may be our two greatest enemies. And they have the full support of the 24/7 news cycle.

“The shit monsoon has swept us all out to sea! Here, you’re gonna need this anvil!”

“What’s that off the port bow? Tom Hanks commanding a destroyer, ready to lead our ragtag convoy to safety? No, it’s just Daffy Uncle Joe in a dinghy, but he hardly stutters at all, and his son’s only a little bit crooked, so no need to panic. Unless you can’t swim.” (Cue the “Jaws” theme.”)

“We’re all fucked!” may be accurate, if only as a self-fulfilling prophecy. But as slogans go, it’s not in a league with “Give me liberty or give me death!”

“But look at the polls!” is likewise unhelpful. Look at them all you want, take whatever solace they may provide. But remember, the only numbers that count are the ones that come out of the actual election. That’s why we hold ’em. To find out who won. Occasionally we are surprised.

Here’s the thing. It’s something of a Zen koan: You can’t bag it. Because it’s not in the bag.

By all means, follow the news and the polls. But not blindly. Keep one eye on the compass and the other on the crew. Some of this lot need a good flogging come Nov. 3. Doesn’t matter who’s captain if the crew’s in mutiny.

And grab an oar. This ain’t “The Love Boat,” matey. No passengers.