Twelve hours after I left home and hearth, sallying forth in the service of bicycle journalism, I found myself back at the ranch, cracking the first of what would be more than one bottle of Odell’s 5 Barrel Pale Ale and speaking in a tone and volume that startled the dog, although the cats are used to it.
It’s all of 85 miles from here to Denver International Airport, a distance I once routinely covered via bicycle, and that’s as far as United Airlines got me today before I finally told them, “Piss on the fire and call in the dogs, I’ve had the course.” Not even bicycle racers can make this many excuses for failure. Call it the Tour of Concourse B.
Had I been flying Air Subaru I’d have made Flagstaff in about the same time as it took to fly from Bibleburg to Mile High and back again (total air time: 40 minutes tops). I could have enjoyed a Hopshot IPA at the Beaver Street Brewing Company, hit the sack, then arisen early and motored to Sacramento for a glass of Thunderhead IPA at Pyramid Breweries. But nooo. …
More tomorrow, once I calm down. We must think of the animals.
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows. ...
February always gives me a case of the ass. The weather is generally unpleasant, my usual running and riding routes seem unsatisfactory, and it seems as though there’s always some indoor cycling involved. Blaugh.
But yesterday’s bonus day took some of the sting out of what had been a chilly, windy month.
I got out for a two-hour ride that took in some streets, bike paths and trails I hadn’t ridden lately, and for a change I was actually overdressed — I could’ve done with knickers rather than leg warmers and quickly swapped full-finger gloves for the sawed-off variety.
Today I’m off to the North American Handmade Bicycle Show, leaving Herself to hold down the fort. It’s just a short hop, more business than pleasure, so I’m not taking any cycling kit, just running stuff. There’s a park near the hotel, so maybe I can run on grass or dirt instead of concrete. My old knees complain bitterly when forced to run on manmade surfaces.
If I have a moment between chores I’ll pop up some pix and notes about the bikes I see. Keep in mind that I’ll be focusing on transportation, not toys. Any requests?
• Why I Loathe Air Travel (No. 1,296,593 In a Series): Being a professional paranoid who travels by air almost, um, never, I get to the Bibleburg Interfaith Interdimensional Airport way too early to catch the Vomit Comet to Denver. Naturally, the announcement that boarding will commence is followed almost immediately by the announcement that our plane is undergoing “a test flight” and that we will not be scurrying inboard for 40 minutes. Will I make my connecting flight to Sacramento? Someone ask Rick Santorum. He seems to have a pipeline to the Almighty.
• Why I Loathe Air Travel (No. 1,296,594 In a Series): Nope. In the words of Maxwell Smart, “Missed it by that much!” Now I get to enjoy three hours in Denver Faux Tipi Intertribal Airport while I wait for an alternative. Should I be concerned that it has begun snowing? Rick? Anyone? Looks like I picked the wrong day to quit sniffing glue. …
• Why I Loathe Air Travel (No. 1,296,595 In a Series): Oh, good, a bomb threat. No, seriously, a bomb threat, levied against an earlier flight to San Diego. The traffic controllers must be enjoying their work today, along with the gate agents who get to speak with all the happy people..
If this is Tuesday, then it must be another GOP primary, and the race between the sweater-vestmented reincarnation of Torquemada and a Terminator built on spec’ by a couple of laid-off Rambler mechanics has been too close to call.
But tonight there will be a winner and … a winner?
Rick Sanctimonious’ handlers are already on record as saying that they’ve won in Michigan and Arizona, regardless of whether their man actually wins.
Michigan apparently remains up for grabs, in no small measure because anyone can play in the GOP primary there, and the Donks are queering the pitch by turning out for Frothy Mix, who has encouraged their participation against the RomneyBot 2012 via the irony of robocalls.
Some Donks think Torquemada v2.0 will be easier for the prez to flog in the general; others clearly have been driven completely insane by seeing these two wealthy honkies crisscrossing the state like gold-plated drones, each claiming to speak for the working man.
I probably won’t follow this nightmare to its conclusion this evening because there won’t be one. The Four Stooges will battle on through Super Tuesday at least, and there will be plenty of opportunity to bring the snark between now and then.
* And yes, I know that the GOP lot are much more Omega Theta Pi than Delta Tau Chi. I was just reaching for the whole getting-your-privileged-ass-kicked thing.
Dig the giant hunk of Detroit iron Herself is driving to Function Junction. And yes, the Death Star is a rental, not a keeper. I've lived in smaller houses.
Ahh … another Saturday unsullied by work for vampire capitalists. Doesn’t pay worth a damn, but it has its advantages nonetheless.
For example, today we’re looking at a high in the mid-50s, which strikes me as pretty good cycling weather. And there are containers of freshly made green chile sauce, chili con carne and vegetable beef soup in the ’fridge, so the day’s eating is more or less taken care of — assuming I don’t decide to assemble some chicken enchiladas to slide under that green chile come dinnertime.
The trick will be to stay far away from the computer, wherein all the evil tidings dwell. There remain four red-ass baboons running for the GOP pestilential nomination — ook ook ook chee chee chee! — and they are flinging dung at each other with a will in advance of Tuesday’s primaries in Arizona and Michigan.
There’s plenty to do around here without all that smelly old shit. Herself is off to Function Junction for a couple of days to handle some library business, and Bouncing Buddy Banzai the Spinning Japanese Wonder Chin has managed to FUBAR his right eye, which requires the application of various pills and potions, and eventually surgery.
Poor little dude has not had much luck with the medicos. Neither have we. Every time we take him to the vet I hear the sound of someone’s Mercedes payment being made. Cha-ching!
Once Herself gets back, I’m off — to the North American Handmade Bicycle Show in Sacramento. Never been to one before and I’m looking forward to it, if only because I’m in dire need of a road trip, some sort of Gathering of the Tribes. Plus there will be editors there, and occasionally where one finds editors, one finds paying work.
What I’d really like to do is hit the Arizona desert for a week of running and riding. But since that pays, um, not at all, an actual play date may have to wait until I unearth another patron of the velo-arts or two or three.
It’ll certainly have to wait until after the primary. You couldn’t pay me to set foot in the state until someone’s policed up all that GOP poo.
This is what a steer looks like after the people who know its people get hungry and descend upon it, brandishing checkbooks.
Herself and I were share owners in this steer, along with a few other folks who were better acquainted with him, and after a quick out-and-back to Crusty County one-eighth of him resides in our freezer alongside a half-dozen quart bags of Pueblo chile. I foresee a synergy between the two in the very near future.*
Thinking about, acquiring, preparing and consuming food helps keep my mind off the ongoing clown show that is American presidential politics. Rick Sanctimonious is getting wiggier by the minute, practically a character in a Monty Python skit about the Spanish Inquisition. And don’t get me started on the RomneyBot 2012. Last machine I saw perform this erratically was a 1996 Ford F-150. It wound up in a ditch, and I wound up back in a Toyota.
* I actually started this post yesterday and didn’t get around to slapping it up until today. Thus the Larga Vista Ranch chile has already become acquainted with the Crusty County beef in the form of a very tasty pot of chili con carne.
