Tag: Herself

Heavy metal

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 9 Comments
It’s not about the bicycle, unless of course it is.

During Herself’s recent visit to Aspen she was compelled to endure a bit of the hee and the haw and the ho ho ho directed at her bicycle, a 2006 Soma Double Cross.

My own Soma Double Cross.

As you know, we are not slaves to velo-fashion here at El Rancho Pendejo. Shucks, I have been known to turn up for a road ride aboard my own slightly newer Double Cross, which has cycled through a number of incarnations — cyclocross bike; light touring bike with fenders, rack, and sacks; townie with swept-back bars; you name it.

At present it’s an eight-speed, “all-road,” drop-bar bike with two bottle cages, IRD Cafam cantis, Dura-Ace bar-end shifters, a triple XT crank (46/34/24T) with Ultegra/XT derailleurs and an 11-34T cassette for a low end of 24x34T (19.2 gear inches), bar-end shifters, Shimano 600 brake levers, IRD Cafam cantis, Mavic Open Pro rims (Dura-Ace hub up front, Velo-Orange behind), and 700×36 Donnelly X’Plor MSO adventure knobbies. Just the vehicle for a short dash around the Elena Gallegos Open Space or a rolling road ride through the foothills.

If you’re me, anyway.

Herself rarely leaves pavement and never rides in foul weather, and so a bike’s capacity for fat-tire fun and fenders isn’t even on her radar. Especially when we consider that while her Double Cross is a 42cm and mine a 55, hers actually outweighs mine by (wait for it) three pounds.

Steel is real — real heavy, if you’re a 5-footer and not rocking the lightweight components.

Don’t get me wrong. The Double Cross is a fine frameset, and I’d buy another in a heartbeat if Soma still did a canti version. But we outfitted hers on the cheap.

She’s pushing about 1.2 pounds more rubber than I am with every pedal stroke, and hasn’t got that 24T granny for the steeps. Plus her saddle, handlebar, seat post and wheels are all heavier than mine. Ditto the controls: chunky 105 STI brifters instead of my bar-cons and pre-Ultegra brake levers.

So, even though I’ve been dropped like an empty bidon by dudes rocking raggedy-ass kit and rattle-canned DUI-mobiles, I can see how the “you get the lunch, I’ll buy the bicycles” types might find Herself’s whip a tad plebeian.

In my defense, I will note that at 5 feet tall and under a hundy, she’s hard to fit. Still, since she makes all the money around here while I do … uh … hold on, gimme a sec’, it’ll come to me. …

Shit. Not much, it seems. I should probably do a bit of shopping, hey?

Call it an impulse, if only because I’ve heard one pitch from a friend of a friend of a friend for something along the lines of a Bianchi Impulso GRX 600. Anyone else got a recommendation they’d like to share?

O, booger

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 7 Comments
Hm. Time for resupply. Either that or I start using the guest towels instead of Kleenex.

I may be running out of Kleenex and boogers more or less simultaneously, which I call either a miracle of planning or the usual dumb luck.

Something grabbed me by the snout a week ago Monday. I was thinking the allergies had seemed a tad fierce lately, but then Herself seemed to come down with an actual cold, so, uh, no. Not allergies. Or maybe not just allergies.

She took two Bug tests, both negative, and since we had similar symptoms I didn’t bother testing myself.

As Herself is a spry young thing she had a couple rough days, then pretty much bounced right back and soldiered on. But then she’s the type of person who would take a childhood diagnosis of asthma and allergies and be all like, “Hm, probably should stay on top of that so it doesn’t turn into a lifetime of skull-fucking sinus infections.”

Another type of person, by which I mean me, might decide to enhance these pre-existing conditions with a marinade of swimming-pool chlorine, nicotine, marijuana, hashish, cocaine, and popskull in various flavors because why the hell not? What could go wrong?

What goes wrong, in my experience, is that every so often you find yourself feeling slightly unwell, with something oozing out of your beak that looks like a microwave pizza that some cube farmer nuked on Friday, promptly forgot about, and rediscovered on Tuesday after a long, hot Memorial Day weekend.

Back in the Day® the medicos would hit you with some interesting speedy drugs and a Z-Pak, the pharmaceutical equivalent of chucking a grenade into a spider hole. Nowadays the thinking is that this only gives rise to antibiotic-resistant infections like Matt Gaetz.

Today the standard practice is to bill you for the visit and send you home empty-handed, save for some sound medical advice. “Get that shit out of here. Jesus. Makes the snack-room microwave look like a surgical theater.”

So I saved myself the trip. Lots of rest, hot fluids, vitamin C, and a really hot pot of posole. Ride it out, same way you do a White House full of eejits and maniacs. I’ve done it before, I can do it again.

34 and counting. …

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 32 Comments
Beauty and the Beast (guess which is which), from May 12, 1990.

And they said it’d never last. Ho, ho.

Today Herself and I celebrate 34 years of Holy Macaroni. She makes regular visits to the eye doctor so it’s not my fault. She’s either extremely tolerant or a secret drinker. P’raps both.

And for those of you who are mothers or had mothers, happy Mother’s Day. Ours were in attendance at the wedding in Hyde State Park up to Fanta Se (third and fourth from left, below) and neither of them disowned us, though mine considered it after I told her she couldn’t smoke in our house.

My sister, Peggy (far right) married Howard, a fine fellow and a Brainiac to boot, but decided against motherhood based upon having grown up alongside Your Humble Narrator, who never did.

And we are likewise without offspring because … seriously, have you ever read this blog? I mean, c’mon. Herself may need vision correction, but she does not lack perception.

Mary Pigeon and Mary Jane O’Grady discuss the pitfalls of procreation.

Time of the season

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 17 Comments
Herself’s Soma Double Cross, ready for its 2024 debut.

The surest sign that spring has sprung is Herself telling me to grease up her old two-wheeler ’cause she’s ready to ride.

That this announcement coincides with temperatures in the upper 70s is not, well, a coincidence.

Herself rides a Soma Double Cross. I bought the frameset back in 2006, and Old Town Bike Shop in Bibleburg tricked it out smartly with bits of this and that, some of them mine, some of them theirs. The drivetrain is a mix of Sugino, FSA, and Shimano 105/LX, yielding a low end of 34×32, which probably should be 34×34, or even 30×34, but I haven’t gone there yet.

Not on her bike, anyway. I love me some 30×34 on my New Albion Privateer and Soma Saga (the disc-brake version).

But then I’m a señor citizen, not some spry young tomato like Herself. She can tough it out. I’ll wheelsuck her and provide helpful hints from her slipstream.

Seasonal prep this year was pretty basic. I checked that everything shifted (105 brifters) and braked (Suntour cantis) as it should, lubed the chain, and replaced the 700×32 Vittoria Randonneur Cross Pros with a pair of Schwalbe Little Big Bens. Run those 38mm fatties down around 35-40 psi and they buff some of the rough spots off The Duck! City roads. I’ve got ’em on both Sagas and they appear to have eternal life. They’re easy on, easy off, too, which is handy in goathead country.

She could use some new handlebar tape, but that can wait, as can a spit-shine for her brass Crane bell, which she rarely uses. That thing could wake the dead. Even the self-deafened AirPlodders dive for the ditches when they hear it tolling for them.

I’ve been giving a little love to neglected bikes this week — the Rivendell Sam Hillborne and DBR Axis TT have both gotten out in the fresh air — but tomorrow I’ll be riding my own Soma Double Cross. Now, you wanna talk about a low low end? How’s 24×34 sound to you? Gimme a tailwind and I can climb a telephone pole.

Don’t tell Herself. If she senses the slightest weakness she’ll put me in The Home.

Tick, tock

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 19 Comments
Blanket pardon.

“You must concentrate upon and consecrate yourself wholly to each day, as though a fire were raging in your hair.”

—Taisen Deshimaru

When I awakened on the morning of my 70th birthday, March 27, 2024, my heart was still beating. Tick, tock; tick, tock. Fifty-two beats per minute, just like clockwork.

I was pretty sure I wasn’t in Hell. I don’t know if we take heartbeats with us to Hell, but if we do, I expect they’re slightly more elevated, what with the pitchforks and roasting and screaming and all.

Also, it was almost six o’clock, and it seemed I had been allowed to sleep in. I’m almost certain that’s not part of the drill in Hell. If there’s any extra sack time in Hell it’s probably spent in an actual sack, being dipped like a teabag into a giant iron mug of boiling shit that you have to drink instead of coffee in the mornings that look just like midnight, only more so, while a grinning D.I. who looks like a cross between R. Lee Ermey and Hellboy screams at you: “You gotta be shittin’ me, Joker! You think you’re Mickey Spillane? You think you’re some kind of a fuckin’ writer? Now get on your face and give me infinity!”

When I finally crawled out of the sack I was 99 percent convinced I was not in Hell.

For one thing, instead of Gunnery Sergeant Beelzebub demanding an eternity of pushups I found a sweet little kitty-cat purring happy birthday to me. Like Herself, who had slipped silently off to work, Miss Mia Sopaipilla had granted me a little extra catnap instead of yowling me up at stupid-thirty to fill her bowl and/or empty her litter box.

And for another, it was 29° outside, with a dusting of snow on the green grass.

Huh. Not Hell. Albuquerque. Some people think it’s Hell, but everyplace is Hell to someone. Especially in March.

So I enjoyed two cups of coffee instead of a bottomless mug of Lipton Shitfire Hellbroth, attended to Miss Mia, and got back to the bloggery. Tempus fugit. Tick, tock; tick, tock.

Thanks to one and all for the birthday wishes. And apologies to anyone who had 69 in the office pool. I had 30; imagine my surprise.