A memorial in honor of Bruce Gordon will be held June 30 in his hometown of Petaluma, Calif.
Bike rides start at 8 a.m. at McNear Park and conclude there at 11 a.m. The memorial starts at noon and wraps at 5 p.m. There will be a potluck, beer, a display of Bruce’s bikes, and a PA in case any of yis would like to deliver a few words about Himself. He would have plenty to say about you, so don’t be shy.
The Masi Speciale Randonneur, with a Tubus Cargo Classic rack, up against the Wall of Science.
Herself buggered off for a long weekend starting last Thursday, this time to the American Heartland for a pal’s wedding, so I was at liberty for a few days.
Well, not exactly.
I had to do battle with the dishwasher (!), make my own coffee (!!) and feed and water the cats (!!!).
Also, I noticed that the litter boxes still refuse to empty themselves. When might I expect delivery of my Turd-B-Gon 9000®? Never? Does never work for me?
No, it does not.
But still, yeah, freedom, amirite?
I got to sleep in until 6 a.m. most days, did little cooking and less shaving, and the riding of the bikes continued unabated. The Masi Speciale Randonneur remains under review for Adventure Cyclist, and in honor of Bruce Gordon and framebuilders everywhere I rode my Nobilette and a Steelman as palate cleansers.
Herself got back yesterday afternoon, after a short delay caused by evil weather. Storms beat the snot out of Dallas, where she was changing planes, and ever since she touched down the wind has been flogging us here in the Duke City. Up north, my man Hal Walter reports ice on the vehicles, the canceling of the Hardrock 100 due to historic snowfall and avalanches, and the rerouting of the Leadville marathon.
All in all, it looks like a fine day to stay indoors and push pixels around.
The SOPWAMTOS parade, with Himself in full fez regalia.
Well, goddamnit, I hope the Universe isn’t going to make a habit of this, snatching up all the interesting people before we’re finished with them.
This time it took Bruce Gordon, the acerbic framebuilder and one of the Self-Appointed Benevolent Co-Dictators for Life of the Society of People Who Actually Make Their Own Shit (SOPWAMTOS).
My Golden Toiddy for (what else?) Excellence In Bad Taste.
Back In the Day® Adventure Cyclist honcho Mike Deme and I tried to get Bruce to lay a bike on us for review purposes but we could never make it happen, possibly because Bruce was reluctant to work up a machine for the likes of us when it was tough enough to move product to the actual paying customers. Jagoffs, poseurs and wanna-bes are to be found in abundance, especially among the working press, and their pockets are notoriously shallow.
In the end I had to settle for a couple of SOPWAMTOS T-shirts, a Golden Toiddy from 1995 (I think), and his Rock n’ Road tires, which I still run on the Voodoo Nakisi. I’m pretty sure I paid retail for everything save the Golden Toiddy, too.
“We were standing in line at dark-thirty for a cup of Starbutt’s finest and got straight to the kvetching, as a guy will before java is made available in a 20-year-old shopping mall masquerading as a casino-hotel. And afterward, too, come to think of it.
Well, some of us, anyway. One of these years Bruce and I should bring a small square of Astroturf and a couple of patio chairs to the show and while away the hours hollering at people to get the hell off our lawn.
I hope Deme has the Astroturf and patio chairs ready. He’s got company.
The view from an overlook atop what I think is Trail 365A, south of the Embudo Canyon trailhead.
Yesterday was a bit overcast, and there were things to do, many, many of them, so I didn’t sneak out for a skull-flushing bike ride until 3 p.m.
With Mister Boo still on a rigorous doping schedule — jeez, you’d think he was riding for Astana or something — I can only get away from Rancho Pendejo for a couple hours at a time. So, given that, and since it was late, I just explored a couple unfamiliar trails branching off the Foothills Trail near the Embudo Dam trailhead.
I didn’t drop down the other side toward Interstate 40, but so far I haven’t found anything I can’t ride on the old Voodoo Nakisi Monstercrosser®, which has 700×43 Bruce Gordon Rock n’ Roads for traction and that nifty 22×26 bailout gear (23.6 gear inches) for emergencies and/or sloth. Had I known I’d wind up liking this bike so much I’d have ordered two framesets and built a disc-brake version with wider rims for really fat tires. Alas, the model is no longer with us, having been discontinued.
The Boo has another follow-up appointment with his veterinary ophthalmologist this morning, and I’m hoping that he’ll enjoy longer intervals between medications henceforth, for his sake and for mine. I’d like to start getting some longer rides in, and I expect he’s getting sick of me grabbing him by the skull four times a day to hose down the only eyeball he has left.
The road to Mandalay (Bay) continues this morning from the Luxor, which is named after a famous Egyptian laxative.
LAS VEGAS, Nev. (MDM) — It figures that the first familiar face I would see this morning was draped over the skull of Bruce Gordon, who like me is a perennial contender for the title of Grumpiest Old Guy At the Show. I’ve spared you the mugshots. You’re welcome.
We were standing in line at dark-thirty for a cup of Starbutt’s finest and got straight to the kvetching, as a guy will before java is made available in a 20-year-old shopping mall masquerading as a casino-hotel. And afterward, too, come to think of it.
Well, some of us, anyway. One of these years Bruce and I should bring a small square of Astroturf and a couple of patio chairs to the show and while away the hours hollering at people to get the hell off our lawn.
I don’t feel like standing in another Vegas queue this morning — one thing America’s paean to the Triumph of Capitalism shares with the defunct Soviet Union is the requirement that one queue for everything, no matter how worthless and unsatisfying — so breakfast today consists of a grande Americano and a Larabar.
And now I got to shake a leg. Mandalay Bay awaits. It’s showtime.
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