Changing Dicks in midscrew

Dick goes limp.
Dick goes limp.

Lest we forget, 39 years ago yesterday Tricky Dick beat it for San Clemency, fleeing DeeCee like a rat out of an aqueduct.

I was working for my first daily paper, the Colorado Springs Sun, and at the ripe old age of 20 it seemed to me that Nixon would be our nadir, president-wise. But then I had no idea that Ronnie “Hollywood” Raygun and George Armstrong Bush (Lone Star Air Force, ret.) were waiting in the wings.

Sometimes I think we’d be better served by instituting a draft for public office. Selective service. Instead of pissing away a ton of time and money on elections, a cumbersome democratic process for which we are clearly ill-equipped, we dump everyone’s Social Security number into a big hopper, and on prime time come Election Day, some Vanna White type starts pulling ’em out.

Start low, with the U.S. House (because, really, does it get any lower than the U.S. House?), and then work your way up. The last number pulled gets to be president for four years. One take, no do-overs.

Since this would be a no-choice deal, we wouldn’t have to provide any perks to attract the “talent.” So away with the fat paychecks and pensions — employees in our three branches of government will be paid whatever the median wage happens to be at the time ($827 per week in the first quarter of 2013). Away with the primo health care that none of the rest of us gets. And no more unproductive downtime spent flatbacking for campaign cash. Beggary is unseemly, especially when one sees so little return on the investment.

Ditto the lucrative post-public-service lobbying gigs. This will be defined as treason and treated as such. Please to return at once to your regular job chucking spuds at strangers through drive-up windows, Senator, if you’re fortunate enough to still have it. (This would have the salutary effect of redirecting our lawmakers’ attention from the theatrical to the practical.)

Sure,  even with a random lottery picking the leadership we’re still likely to get the occasional Anthony Penis in office, texting wiener pictures hither and yon. But with campaigning for election a thing of the past, at least we won’t have to endure endless reportage about his oh-so-tricky dick.

It was a dark and stormy night

Sure beats being on fire.
Sure beats being on fire.

It’s official — Bibleburg has set a record for consecutive days of rain.

Twelve straight days of rain is a lot here. The chamber boyos brag that we have 300-plus days of sunshine per annum, but that’s a case of printing the legend a la “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.” We do have our dark and stormy periods, and not just in local gummint, either.

So, yeah. Three bikes in the garage are now sporting fenders, because here at Chez Dog we insist that all brown stripes be restricted to underwear.

Little Boy at 68

Hell came to Hiroshima 68 years ago today.

My dad, who was flying C-47s out of in New Guinea at the time, said years afterward that he was convinced the U.S. nuclear attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki were necessary to save his life and the lives of his comrades, arguing that carrying conventional warfare to the bitter end with an invasion of Japan’s home islands would have been a long, drawn-out and very bloody business.

Maybe so. Greg Mitchell at The Nation has his doubts, and suggests that the notion that prevailed in 1945 and for decades afterward — that nuclear weapons were simply another tool of modern warfare, one that could be used surgically if need be with few serious consequences  — is a myth that persists today (see Israel v. Iran, et al.).

Kids today don’t enjoy the duck-and-cover drills that I took for granted as a child, or if they do, I haven’t heard about it. As a rabid consumer of apocalyptic fiction one of the first things I thought about our 1967 transfer from Randolph AFB outside San Antone to Ent AFB in Bibleburg was: “Holy shit. Cheyenne Mountain. Major Soviet target, right up there with the Pentagon and SAC at Offutt.” Ironically, one of the first houses we looked at was in Cheyenne Mountain School District 12. It had a bomb shelter, which would have been about as effective against a spread of SS-9s as the miniature parasol Wile E. Coyote deployed to deflect incoming boulders.

Today’s remote-control, push-button warfare mostly involves drones, but it’s still real people out there ducking, covering and dying. Whatever you think about what took place 68 years ago today, be sure to spare a thought for what might happen 68 minutes from now.

Before the deluge

Soma Double Cross
The Soma Double Cross in semi-touring configuration.

The Thunder God’s mojo must be on the fritz. Once again I got home from a ride just as the rain started to fall.

I snapped a quick pic of today’s steed for your amusement — it’s the Soma Double Cross, tricked out as half a tourist, with a rear rack and silver SKS fenders.

The Double Cross has a Tange Prestige main triangle and Tange Infinity fork; an eight-speed drivetrain (bar-end shifters, XT triple crankset, Ultegra front derailleur, XT rear); Shimano R550 cantilevers, an ancient set of Shimano 600 brake levers and a newish set of Empella Froggleg top-mounted levers; Mavic Open Pro rims, Dura-Ace hubs and a pair of 700×38 Schwalbe Little Big Ben tires; a Giant stem, Deda bars and some truly ancient Off the Front cyclo-cross tape; Time ATAC pedals; a Tubus Logo rack with a Busch & Muller 4D taillight; and an Easton seatpost topped with (of course) a Selle Italia Flite saddle.

This may be the least expensive bike in the garage, though my Voodoo Nakisi will certainly give it a run for the money. Oddly enough, those are the two bikes I ride the most.

Hammer time

My custom Nobilette
The better-than-ever Nobilette.

The weather gods have been toying with me lately.

No matter what time of day I finish my chores, that’s when the rain starts. All I have to do is look at a bit of cycling kit, or envision the door to the garage, and it’s like thunder! Lightning! The way it loves me is frightening! I better knock (bam bam bam bam) on wood. …

But Thor must have been in a meeting or on an early mead break this morning, because I slipped out for a couple of hours and just made it home before he clocked back in and started swinging that soggy ol’ hammer again.

Highway 24
Looking east from Highway 24 near Marksheffel.

I was aboard my only custom bike, the Reynolds 853 Nobilette, which underwent a bit of a transformation on Thursday down at Old Town Bike Shop. I decided to swap out the industrial-looking Race Face compact crankset for a prettier and more functional Sugino XD2 triple, and finally found a handlebar that I like (a wide, short-reach, shallow-drop Torelli). While we were at it I picked out a stem with a little less rise to it than its predecessor.

Everything else remains as is: nine-speed Ultegra with bar-cons; Mavic Open Pros, Ultegra hubs, and Soma New XPress 700×32 rubber (made in Japan by Panaracer);  Paul’s Neo-Retro and Touring cantis with SwissStop Viking pads and Cane Creek levers (reg’lar and top-mounted). The saddle is a Selle Italia Flite, of course. The pedals are Shimano XT. And yes, it will accept a rear rack and fenders.

The next thing is to swap out the Giant stem and Ritchey post for some L.H. Thomson bike jewelry. But that will have to wait for the next time a spare dollar rolls around, if ever.

Meanwhile, the Nobilette is better than ever. I took it out east for a short shakedown cruise that got even shorter when I glanced over one shoulder to gauge the weather. Man, you can see company coming a long ways off from Highway 24. Storm clouds, too.