No foolin’

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 25 Comments
The Salsa Vaya, coming to an Adventure Cyclist issue near you.
The Salsa Vaya, coming to an Adventure Cyclist issue near you.

It’s New Bike Week here at Mad Dog Media, a 57cm Salsa Vaya 2 having arrived just in time for what passes for spring in these parts (37 degrees, 10-mph wind, etc., et al., and so on and so forth).

The Vaya is Salsa’s touring and “road adventure” bike — hey, all the roads are an adventure in these parts, Sparky — and it sports all the usual goodies, from braze-ons for racks and fenders and three bottle cages to a Shimano 105 10-speed drivetrain to some big ol’ honkin’ 700×40 Schwalbe Marathon Plus tires that weigh 940g (!) apiece.

The color is Smokey Blue Robinson, in case you were wondering.

We went for our maiden voyage yesterday, just an hour or so of chewing on the wind and inspecting some recently concluded work on the north-south bike path (fresh concrete, yay!). Once the temps inch up a bit we’ll do it again, because the weather wizards are calling for a chance of rain or snow Wednesday night.

 

An ill wind

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 35 Comments
The northwest side of the Cheyenne Trail in Palmer Park.
The northwest side of the Cheyenne Trail in Palmer Park.

Ah, jaysis. One of those forecasts. The devil must be eating beans again, because the wind is up, and it stinks.

After spending the morning working on various velo-projects and watching the trees prostrate themselves like monks before the altar I decided to leave all the bikes in the garage, no matter what class of tires they were wearing, and go for a 90-minute hike in Palmer Park.

Some dipshit lit the place up the other day, briefly, and with Beelzebub’s butt-trumpet blasting hell-farts hither and yon suddenly the Asplundh folks are in there turning foliage into sawdust. It’s either a fire-mitigation effort or a thinly disguised attempt to deny cover to those horny Bibleburgers who are either too free-spirited for a hotel or too cheap to rent a room, the park’s shadier nooks long having served as havens for spirited and unsanctioned rounds of Hide the Bishop.

There was none of that going on today — not that I saw, anyway — though I did spot what could have been a few post-coital cigarette butts along the way. There was, however, a veritable parade of mountain bikers disinclined to yield trail, unleashed dogs dropping deuces, and oblivious pedestrians.

One day these three factions will come together in some blind corner as yet uncleared by Asplundh and there will be a fine old donnybrook. I will sell tickets and use the proceeds to buy a house in some place where neither the wind nor the populace blows.

 

The next 60

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 40 Comments
The Soma Saga in its present configuration. I'm thinking about losing the rando' bars for some short-reach drops, beefing up the bar tape and fattening up the tires.
The Soma Saga in its present configuration. I’m thinking about losing the rando’ bars for some short-reach drops, beefing up the bar tape and fattening up the tires.

Thanks to all of you for the most excellent birthday wishes. No. 60 was a quiet day around Chez Dog — since Herself was road-tripping for business purposes, the party was an exclusive affair; just me, the menagerie, and all those voices in my head (happily, they don’t eat much, not even ice cream).

Today, a milestone behind me and various millstones ahead, I continued what I’m calling Ride the Neglected Bicycles Week. So far it’s seen the Voodoos Nakisi and Wazoo, the Co-Motion Divide Rohloff, and the Jones all get out of the garage for some vigorous thrashing, and there are still two days left. Tomorrow’s supposed to be 60-something and mostly sunny. You can’t stop me!

When not riding, I’ve been reading about riding. “Life Is a Wheel” is Bruce Weber’s account of his second cross-country cycling trip, undertaken at age 57. I had been aware of his ride — a writer for The New York Times, Weber blogged about it for the paper — but the book had somehow slipped my mind. I saw the review, downloaded the book, and so far Weber and I have spent an enjoyable few evenings together.

Like other road books — “Travels With Charley,” “Blue Highways,” and of course, “On the Road,” “Life Is a Wheel” is giving me notions. Nothing so elaborate as a cross-country ride, mind you, certainly not in springtime. But taking a few days away, under my own steam, sounds like a wonderful departure from business as usual.

 

The big six-oh (no)

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 40 Comments
Pikes Peak as seen from the Yucca Flats dog-walking ghetto at Palmer Park.
Pikes Peak as seen from the Yucca Flats dog-walking ghetto at Palmer Park.

I awakened with a start this morning to someone singing “Happy Birthday” and a giant furry creature sitting on my chest.

“Well, that’s that,” I thought. “The devil has finally come to collect. At least things will be warm from now on.”

But no, it was just Herself (singing) and Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (sitting). The former was off to work and the latter was interested primarily in my bedside glass of water. Miss Mia Sopaipilla and Mister Boo, being junior staff, were on perimeter duty.

I got up, grabbed a cup of joe (first things first) and checked the mirror. I didn’t look any younger, but I didn’t look any older, either. We must take these little gifts as they are offered.

This being March in Colorado, I jumped the gun and rode my age-to-be yesterday, in kilometers, when it was shorts-and-short-sleeves weather. Today looks a little iffier, with a high in the mid-50s, a chance of rain and plenty of wind.

It was the sort of ride I’ve come to relish in my declining years — a blend of city streets, gravel paths and single-track, taken on a weirdomobile, the Voodoo Nakisi with its triple crankset and 700×43 tires. It’s spring break, but I managed to avoid breaking anything, despite a ragged parade of homeless zombies on the southern end of the Pikes Peak Greenway and rush-hour traffic on the trails in Palmer Park.

Afterward I cycled over to Ranch Foods Direct and picked up a steak to grill for birthday dinner, which included mashed Yukon Golds, steamed asparagus and a big bowl of ice cream. We watched Stewart and Colbert, walked the Boo in a light rain and that was that. A fine time was had by all.

I’m still waiting for wisdom to arrive, but I haven’t seen the UPS truck yet. Let’s hope it beats the devil here.

Stoking the furnace

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 32 Comments
Eat 'em up!
Eat ’em up!

Temperature? 23, feels like 13. Chance of rain and/or snow? 80 percent.

Springtime in the Rockies? Check.

When whisky is unavailable, what a auld fella wants on a brisk morning such as this is Bob’s Red Mill organic seven-grain pancakes with butter and maple syrup, two eggs over easy, black coffee and tea, mandarin segments and some warm socks (don’t eat that last item unless you’re really, really hungry or in dire need of fiber).

Like a dumb dog, I’m always surprised when spring looks suspiciously like winter, the way eastern Colorado looks like Kansas and Paul Ryan looks like a baboon’s ass. But last year, samey same. And the year before that. Annnnd the year before that.

You get the idea.

One of these days I’ll wise up and move to the desert. Where, naturally, I’ll bitch about the heat.