Jon Paulos was asking the other day about when we might expect fresh pix of The Three Stooges (Boo, Mia and Turk). That would be today. The Turk has been remarkably photogenic lately, rolling around on the carpet as if it were the nice green lawn we don’t have. And Mia and Boo are always ready for their closeups.
If you ever feel the urge to drive yourself stone batshit crazy, I recommend shooting a bunch of video with two GoPro HERO 3 Black Editions, only one of which works with any degree of reliability, and then editing the pile in iMovie 10, which you have never used, on an 11-inch MacBook Air, which is basically an iPhone with delusions of grandeur and a keyboard.
Good God awmighty. My brain hurts. Especially when I recall that I did this for free, just to see if I could. The next time I see a beach ball spinning that wildly, that often, I’d better be on an actual beach, and full of drugs, too.
After five hours of drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds, I’m back in Bibleburg, where the winds have been knocking down trees, launching trash cans into low-earth orbit and generally annoying the mortal shit out of people. With more of the same on tap today it looks like fine weather for a hike, wearing ski goggles and a respirator.
I felt guilty about giving our old hometown of Santa Fe a miss on the way to Albuquerque, so on the return trip I stopped by Ten Thousand Waves for a much-needed soak and grabbed lunch at La Choza, primo to The Shed. Both places were nuts, it being a federal holiday, and I didn’t get home until 7 p.m. or thereabouts.
Training camp was a qualified success — I added miles, but didn’t subtract any weight, thanks to meals at Scalo Northern Italian Grill, Mary & Tito’s Cafe, Satellite Coffee and Zacatecas Tacos & Tequila.
Speaking of vittles, I don’t expect to be shopping at Reid’s Fine Food in Charlotte when I visit the 2014 North American Handmade Bicycle Show in North Carolina next month. It probably wasn’t smart of cook Drew Swope to lip off to a customer, even a punk-ass bitch like Gov. Pat McCrory — hey, Pat, I’ve got a gourmet snack option for you right here — but it wasn’t exactly brilliant of owner Tom Coker to sack Swope for speaking his mind, either.
After a few too many days of my own personal Winter Olympics (ride, try not to fall on the ice; walk, try not to fall on the ice; stay indoors, try not to fall on the ice) I had the Subaru serviced, packed it with cycling and journalism gear, and got the hell out of a house that was starting to feel a tad too small for optimal mental health.
It was strictly a professional decision, of course. I’m reviewing another bike, the Kona Sutra, and it’s hard to evaluate a road bike if you can’t see the road for all the lumpy ice piled on the sonofabitch.
I considered Arizona, but time is short, and so is money. So I roared down to Albuquerque, set up shop in a Hilton property using Herself’s accrued points, and got to riding sans neoprene.
I shouldn’t be crowing about the lack of snow in a state so short of water, but it feels downright heavenly to ride the Paseo del Bosque Trail in shorts and short sleeves. Plus I had a small combo plate at Mary & Tito’s Cafe last night, and you just can’t find that kind of grub in Bibleburg, not even if I’m in the kitchen.
Sid Caesar got out of town, too. But he’s never coming back, more’s the pity.
Finally, the temperature crept above zero, and then above freezing, and after I shipped my “Shop Talk” cartoon for the March 1 edition of Bicycle Retailer and Industry News I was able to sneak out for my first ride in the better part of quite some time that didn’t require pulling on enough neoprene to make wetsuits for every frogman in the Chinese navy.
First I took the Bootleg Hobo out and about with a GoPro on board, so I could get some winter footage for its video review, which Adventure Cyclist wants early next month.
Then I pulled the old mountain bike out of the garage again and rode over to Bear Creek Regional Park, where the Mad Dogs used to promote cyclo-cross races back when we were men instead of whatever it is that we are now.
There was still plenty of snow and ice on the ground, plus some slush to keep it company, and the trails were thick with feckin’ eejits who were either unable or unwilling to hear the crunch of fat tires on old snow, a bell rung thrice, and a cheery voice warning, “On your left!”
I startled the mortal shit out of at least two of ’em when I passed. They jumped smack out of their shivering skins and left ’em splayed on the ground like sex dolls awaiting inflation, their internal workings exposed to the elements. Stupidity should be painful.
Speaking of which, our local fish-wrapper, which is dead set on helping politicians, developers and other shameless hoors further enrich themselves at the taxpayers’ expense by elevating The Olympic Movement to cult status hereabouts, couldn’t even be bothered to localize an Associated Press story about a new national mountain-bike series that will finish right here in Bibleburg, home to (wait for it) The U.S. Olympic Committee and USA Cycling, in the U-nited States of America.
Nope, they’re too busy pimping the Winter Games, which is all the way around the damn’ world in Red Roosha, is what.
Shit, the lazy sonsabitches didn’t even fix the typos. Looks like we lost the Cold War after all.
