Apologies for the extended hitch in the blogging gitalong.
Herself returned from Maine on Saturday with a case of The Bug, and thanks to the recent heavy rains I have been enjoying an extended allergic reaction to just about everything, including, as you have seen, bloggery.
The Boss is feeling much better now, thanks to rest, tea, posole, and television. I remember when rest, Canada Dry ginger ale, Lipton’s chicken noodle soup, and comic books did the trick for me. So it goes.
Despite a surfeit of snot I have been out and about on the Soma Pescadero, and you may expect an Adventure Cyclist-style review here in the very near future. Of the Soma, not the snot.
It’s been interesting to see how the Pescadero stacks up with the rest of the Merry Sales family — my two Soma Sagas (one rim brake, one disc); the Double Cross (my oldest Soma); and the New Albion Privateer. Marketeer Stan Pun says the Pescadero is “probably our most under-the-radar frame,” which is a pity, because it’s a smooth blend of past and present. It should be flying high.
Anyway, more on that later. Right now it’s time to ride.
Or so I hope, anyway. We have a largish fire burning at the Arizona-New Mexico border, another one freshly pissed out in an industrial district north of downtown, an air-quality alert, and a red-flag warning.
If I were smart I’d stay inside with the doors and windows shut. But if I were smart, I wouldn’t have mowed the lawn yesterday.
Uh, whatever it is, I’ve got it penciled in … or not.
Whenever Herself zips off someplace for an extended stretch I suffer from delusions of creativity.
The idea is that somehow a window will open onto a shining world full of possibilities — blogging, podcasting, cartooning, etc.
Ho, ho. Miss Mia Sopaipilla gets more accomplished in one trip to the litter box than I do all day.
Here’s that annoying poet again, poking his big beezer through my window:
Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow — T.S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”
In Herself’s absence Mia and I both find our daily routines disrupted, but Mia bounces back faster. Initially, upon discovering that her support staff has been halved, there is a related increase in vocalization, perimeter inspection, game-playing, and other attention-seeking practices related to separation anxiety.
“You may amuse us.”
But then she rockets right through all five stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance — and simply takes more and longer naps in various sunny spots, reasoning that time passes more quickly that way, and soon she’ll awaken to Herself offering a soupçon of half-and-half while preparing her breakfast coffee instead of that old baldheaded sonofabitch grumbling over a mug of tarry black heart-starter.
Me, I get to pick up a few more shifts in the barrel.
Herself gets up at 4 a.m. most days, so when she is not around to arise and deal with Mia, well, this means that I get up at 4 a.m. most days. This cuts deeply into my beauty sleep, which anyone who has seen me in the flesh knows I need desperately, the way Stephen Miller needs a walk-in freezer full of dead teenage runaways. (“Time for a cold one. …”).
Then there’s the cooking for one. Takes as much time as cooking for two, but now I have to handle the post-dinner cleanup.
Laundry. Won’t do itself. I’ve done the research. Same goes for taking out the trash and recycling, and loading/emptying the dishwasher.
And don’t get me started on the whole “making money” thing. Lucky for me it rolls in like the tide. I ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.
Birds gotta be fed. We were out of seed, so it was off to our seed dealer, who is a talker. Hummers are back, so their feeders had to get filled and distributed around the yard, which was in need of mowing.
Somehow mowing is one of my regular chores. I’ve argued that it should fall to Herself, since it’s basically vacuuming outdoors, sort of like the parkour of hoovering. But she just chuckles and reminds me who makes all the fucking money around here.
Then my old VeloNews comrade Casey Gibson happened to be rolling through town to spectate at the Tour of the Gila, so it goes without saying that we had to get together for a couple of meals and complain about all the money we weren’t making.
And of course bicycles must be ridden and runs ran. Run? I’ll get back to you on that.
Thus a whole lot of my daylight (and best-laid plans) went up in smoke. And all I’ve got to show for it is clean laundry, washed dishes, a trimmed lawn, a couple extended chats over restaurant meals, empty trash bins, full birds, and a happy cat.
Because Herself just came home. Half and half is back on the menu. And I’m sleeping in tomorrow.
“That’s a half-666,” I thought drowsily, trying to recall the details of a dream I’d been having. Something about needing to be somewhere, late as usual, and rooting through a duffel full of colorful short-sleeve shirts and shorts because of course I was butt-ass nekkid.
Then it came to me. Spring. First day of. I awarded myself a soupçon of spring break and dozed until 5.
When I dragged ass out of the sack to pull on some duds I was not looking for a flowered Paddygucci shirt and shorts, because spring in New Mexico debuted at 22°, which called for pants, long-sleeve shirt, and a light fleece vest.
Miss Mia Sopaipilla had already greeted the vernal equinox by blowing a hairball and carpet-bombing the litter box. Herself was clocked in at work, hoping to cash a few more checks before the X-Man decides Sandia National Labs doesn’t need any librarians to tell his DOGEbags where they might find the owner’s manuals for the Death Ray.
Just wing it, fellas. Hit that big red button on the grip and see what comes out the other end. Probably shouldn’t look down the barrel while you’re doing it. Move fast, break things, etc. Whoops, there goes Paris. Serves ’em right for wanting their statue back.
We all have our little routines. Spontaneity, first thing in the morning? No, thank you, please. Predictability is what’s wanted before coffee.
So I arise at stupid-thirty, since that’s how we roll around here. Dress in the dark, because one day this will not be optional. Visit the bathroom. Greet Herself and Miss Mia Sopaipilla. Tidy up Miss Mia’s bathroom and give her a vigorous massage on The Chair of Love.
“Take me out to the ball game.”
And finally, make coffee.
Thus fortified, I usually scan the headlines to inspect humanity’s latest self-inflicted wounds. But lately that feels like rubbernecking at an inner-city ER. Let’s start with something light, shall we?
Jaysis. Even the weather report is all like, “We have good news and bad news.” The good news is that yesterday Herself and I took an afternoon stroll in shorts and T-shirts. The bad news is that high-temperature records are dropping like staffing levels at USAID and if the current precip trend continues we’re likely to be drinking our own wee-wee by March instead of August.
At this point a second cup of coffee is indicated. Black, hold the wee-wee.
Check the email? No joy there. Evil tidings, in fact. Avert the eyes.
Toast, then. With butter and jam. Also, and too, oatmeal, with banana, pecans, cinnamon, brown sugar, maple syrup. Black tea to give the coffee some backup. Play ball with Miss Mia.
Time for The Times? Y’think? And a-one, and a-two, annnnnd. …
An overly spicy pasta dinner led to a restless night, and by the time I dragged ass out of the sack this morning temps in the teens plus a biting wind out of the north had done a Pythonesque “Meaning of Life” number on our trees.
A veritable blur of activity was Your Humble Narrator back in his days as a cyclocross promoter..
Herself’s mantra is “We can do anything for 30 minutes.” But she wasn’t here, so I gave myself a day off from the usual outdoorsy pasatiempos. Took some pix, downloaded some software, entertained the cat, fed the birds (no, not to the cat), collected the mail (all bullshit), perused the news (likewise), drank tea.
In short, stayed warm.
There’s something deep in the heart of me that remembers those bitter wintry mornings of yesteryear, which saw me hammering barrier stakes into frozen turf at stupid-thirty and wondering if this would finally be the day when nobody but me turned up to race cyclocross.
Mad Blog Media 