The mighty DBR Axis TT, which dates to 1994 or thereabouts. Greatly enhanced with a rebuilt fork from HippieTech and various other aftermarket items.
Yesterday was death. Buried head-down in the VeloNews.com barrel, which was full of fish heads, dead cats and used Pampers.
Today was another sort of day altogether, as in a day off, mostly. Banged out a ‘toon for VeloNews the magazine, then went for a rare mountain-bike ride, in Palmer Park. Rode a few sections that ordinarily baffle me, too. Maybe it was the allergy meds. Maybe it was the weather, mid-60s and sunny. Nah, probably the dope.
Upon returning home, I flung open the windows, took the cats out for an airing, watered the lawn, fired up the ’83 Toyota for a quick spin to charge the battery and otherwise loosen up its elderly joints, and then cracked a Mirror Pond Pale Ale in honor of the day the beer flowed again. Thanks and a hoist of the Mad Dog stein to The Gnome and DrunkCyclist for the link.
Busy, busy, busy. It’s Cobbles Week over at VeloNews.com, and today that means the Tour of Flanders. You want to find out who won, drop on by. They sell ads and stuff and need the eyeballs.
Editor in chief Ben Delaney is laboring across the pond, as is editor at large John Wilcockson. Euro’ correspondent Andrew Hood is pretty much always there, as is ace shooter Graham Watson, and so we do not lack for postable news nuggets as the hard men bang bars in the sleet and cowshit.
On days like this I drag ass out of bed far too early, grab a cup of mud and plunk down in the office chair to play editor from a distance, fielding e-mails and instant messages from the far-flung VeloGang, which operates in press rooms, pubs and home offices in Europe, Colorado and Wyoming, where longtime web geek Charles Pelkey hangs his ten-gallon hat.
It’s hard to believe that when I first started working with VeloNews back in 1989, a Mac SE with a 1200-baud Hayes modem hooked to a BBS constituted the pinnacle of journalistic technology. I was still FedExing original black-and-white cartoons and faxing stories from Santa Fe to the mothership in Boulder.
There are downsides to a smaller world, of course. Today, colleagues can poke their long, snoopy noses over your shoulder via AIM, iChat or Skype. It’s almost like having them right there in the office with you. Happily, you can always unplug the sonsabitches like Dave Bowman did the HAL 9000, another digital presence famous for erratic backseat driving, and go back about your business.
While I strive to muster the intestinal fortitude to go for a run in our gentle 45-mph spring zephyrs, let’s examine a few notes from the news:
• The Sultans of Swat: “Floggings, stonings could begin in Pakistan’s scenic Swat valley.” No, it’s not a delayed April Fool’s gag, and you can read the story here.
• Heeeee’s Baaaaaaack: Renowned doper and dingbat extraordinaire Frank Vandenbroucke wins a bicycle race for the first time since 2005. Must be nice to be in the sports pages instead of the police blotter for a change.
• I Call That Bold Talk for a One-Eyed Fat Man: The Coen brothers are remaking “True Grit,” planning to hew more closely to Charles Portis’ original novel than did the John Wayne classic.
Got some weirdos of your own? Leave ’em in comments.
• Late update: Well, it probably snowed three or four feet today. But not here. We only got to watch it whiz at high speed from north to south, perfectly parallel to the ground, bound for New Mexico and points south.
Turkenstein the Magnificent reclines in the sun-splashed grass, blissfully unaware that yet another spring snowstorm is en route to keep his giant white ass indoors.
Damn’ Democrats. Soon’s they get into office, winter becomes spring and spring becomes winter. Whoops, same thing with the last guy. Never mind.
The Front Strange is hunkering down for its third spring snowstorm in less than three weeks, so after squeaking in a quick run I took the cats outdoors for a bit of vitamin D before the deal goes down.
Turkish gets out all the time, without close supervision, though he likes some days better than others (sun and dirt is good, wind and snow, not so much).
Mia Sopaipilla only gets out on a harness-leash combo, which greatly cramps her style but reassures her two-legged staffers (the neighborhood is lousy with foxes, feral cats and loose mutts).
Where the hell is that ding-a-ling noise coming from?
As a consequence, Turk’ is jaded. Ho hum, another day outdoors, big whup. Been there, done that, got the furball.
For Mia, on the other hand, every outing is a fresh adventure. Bugs! Trees! Wind chimes! Wow! Why don’t we have all this cool stuff indoors where we can enjoy it at a moment’s notice, unfettered by leather, nylon and primate paranoia?
Indeed. The indoors would be much more interesting if it were more like the outdoors. More sunshine, less radiation from computer monitors. More grass, less carpet. Fewer walls, more possibilities.
Unless we’re talking about the next couple days, anyway. According to the National Weather Service, the indoors is going to be a good deal warmer and drier, and therefore, albeit briefly, the smarter choice.
So I’m engaged in another little office cleanup project, getting a deal on a new APC Back-UPS surge protector/battery backup in return for recycling the old one, and when I haul the previous edition to the UPS Store to ship it off, the manager is tending to an elderly gent who is having some class of episode.
He’s sprawled out in an office chair, not particularly responsive, and has lost control of his bladder. The manager is taking his pulse and talking quietly to him, one hand with a damp cloth on the back of his neck, as her assistant speaks with 911. We can hear the sirens, and as the fire truck and an ambulance pull up outside, he mumbles that he doesn’t want any ambulance ride because it will cost him $50. The small shop fills up quickly with firefighters, paramedics and their gear.
Eighty-eight years old, fades out in a UPS store and can’t afford a $50 ambulance ride. Sports a POW-MIA cap. A son, maybe? Who knows? I conduct my little bit of business and roll out the door.
On the way home I hit the radio and Terry Gross is chatting with doctor, bioethicist and author Robert Martensen about the U.S. health-care system. They agree it has a couple of hitches in its gitalong. No fucking shit. Y’think?
I come home to a voice mail from our accountant. Seems we owe Uncle Sugar a couple thou’ to keep Wall Street from taking an infarction. Thank God the money isn’t going for any of that socialized medicine this new crowd in Washington, D.C., is on about. I’d sure hate to see The State tinker with a private enterprise that’s ticking along so smoothly.
