Tag: Ronald McDonald McTrump

Old race, new race

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 9 Comments
Looking east at the Sandias from NM 313, en route to Bernalillo.
Looking east at the Sandias from NM 313, en route to Bernalillo.

It sure is nice to spend mornings riding the bike rather than writing the bike.

Yesterday I rode out to Bernalillo on NM 313, inspecting the first leg of what would be a fun training ride — basically an extended version of the old Watermelon Mountain Classic that I used to race back in the Eighties.

That race started in Bernalillo and climbed through Placitas on NM 165 to the Sandia Peak Ski Area, then dropped through Sandia Park and Cedar Crest before finishing on NM 333 just east of Albuquerque.

What made it interesting was a stretch of unimproved dirt Forest Service road — about seven miles of switchbacks, if memory serves — that climbed to the Sandia Crest Road just below the ski area, which used to host an occasional mountain-bike race.

After that it was mostly the old zoom-zoom, down, down, down to the Duke City. I was usually pretty aggressive on the climb, but whatever I gained on the uphill I lost on the downhill, suffering as I did from an overactive imagination and a feeble health-insurance plan.

My version of the Watermelon would start at El Rancho Pendejo, which adds 20 miles to the front end of the ride. The backside would be augmented by a half-dozen miles or thereabouts, from the old finish line back to the rancho. Eating the whole ‘melon would involve about 63 miles, many of them uphill. Good times. Maybe not.

Speaking of races and good times, Ronald McDonald McTrump came in for a vigorous thumping last night at the DNC. Even the prez got in on the act, which MoJo’s Kevin Drum summarized in 17 words:

Michael Bloomberg: Trump is a con man.

Tim Kaine: Trump is a liar.

Joe Biden: Trump is a sociopath

Barack Obama: Trump is an asshole.

Drum qualified that last by noting that it was his translation “from the original Obamish.” Pretty accurate translation, I’d say.

 

Vuelta de Bosque

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 17 Comments
The northbound view.
The northbound view.

With the Tour in the books, I actually managed to saddle up while it was still coolish outdoors and went for a long, pleasant spin along the Paseo del Bosque trail.

Southbound, en route to the Rio Bravo turnaround.
Southbound, en route to the Rio Bravo turnaround.

Raptors and bunnies were playing hide-and-seek for keeps as I zipped down the Paseo del Norte trail, which drops off the North Diversion Channel trail and feeds into the bosque trail, and there were plenty of two-wheelers out and about as well, despite it being a workday (bums).

After enjoying a slight tailwind out, I decided to skip the 5.4-mile circuit south of Rio Bravo, which turned out to be a poor decision — I missed making my 62nd-birthday mileage by the length of the loop. And the headwind for the return leg was not so much of a much, though the steady climb back to El Rancho Pendejo was the usual struggle.

Speaking of struggles, it sounds as though Comrade Eeyore’s cadres are going all Little Red Book on pretty much everyone at the Democratic National Convention, including Dear Leader himself. Good times. Maybe not.

And yeah, I know me some Little Red Book, yo.
And yeah, I know me some Little Red Book, yo.

I feel their pain. As a retired commie myself, I enjoyed voting for the old socialist in the primary. And I’m certainly not feeling that old smash-the-State love from The Hilldebeast, though Comrade Downhill Bill speaks highly of her running mate in comments. Comrade Pierce approves, too, albeit with reservations.

But you go to vote with the system you have, not the system you wish you had. Ask any old Red.

And if the choice is between Ronald McDonald McTrump and The Hilldebeast, well, that’s no choice at all, is it? You pinch your nose, vote D, and then go home and give yourself a swirly for three or four hours in a toilet full of cheap gin.

 

The troll of Tramway

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments
"Who's that tripping over my bridge?" roared the troll.
“Who’s that tripping over my bridge?” roared the troll.

If you can’t stand the heat, get under the overpass.

The Tour stages cut deeply into the cool morning hours, so we Live Update Guys can’t get out and about until 10-ish most days.

Today it was already 80-something when I finally got rolling, and 90-something when I got home. Drank two bottles and snarfed down a gel but found myself slightly weary for some reason. Go figure.

The only shade to be found on the entire two-hour ride was underneath Tramway, between Manitoba and Spain, so I took a brief photography break before resuming my climb back to the air-conditioned barn.

When I arrived home I saw that Ronald McDonald McTrump was panhandling his Twitter followers, so I graciously offered him the steam off my piss. Haven’t heard back yet. There’s just no pleasing some people.

Self-funded campaign, me arse.
Self-funded campaign, me arse.

Hot town, summer in Duke City

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 13 Comments
It was a wee bit hazy with a scent of smoke in the air as Mister Boo enjoyed his promenade this morning.
It was a wee bit hazy with a scent of smoke in the air as Mister Boo enjoyed his promenade this morning.

Smokin’ hot in the Duke City this morning, and for the immediate future as well.

We have a nice little fire cooking away down southeast of here, and a couple others elsewhere. The smell of a forest burning revives a memory of our storied Bibleburg days and provides a preview of my anticipated afterlife.

Taking a few hot laps around the Elena Gallegos Open Space on the Jones 29er.
Taking a few hot laps around the Elena Gallegos Open Space on the Jones 29er.

The heat is tough on the turf, which is slightly scorched due to someone not noticing that a sprinkler head had gone sideways. (Thanks, Obama!)

And it’s no party for the pets, all three of whom have whiled away the day sleeping. Mister Boo is barely interested in his meals, which ordinarily would be a sign of the Apocalypse but in this case indicates that it’s just too bloody hot to eat.

Or cook, for that matter. Last night Herself and I dined on a hunk of smoked salmon, sharp cheddar, crackers and a big-ass salad (note the crucial hyphen there; a big ass salad would be something else entirely).

Tonight I think it’s gonna be some hot Italian sausage, onions and peppers, a tomatoey, garlicky thing, perhaps over orecchiette, a pasta I’m really starting to appreciate.

Elsewhere The Stupid is swelling like a boil on the buttocks of the body politic. Sen. John McInsane (R-Off My Lawn) is spastically trying to walk back a brain-dead crack he made about Obama’s responsibility for the massacre in Orlando (time for your meds, some soup and a nice nap, Johnny me boyo). And Rumor Control hints that Cheeto Jesus may be less interested in the presidency than in his own cable network.

Seriously? We’ve all watched the GOP sawing feebly away at its skinny wrists with a butter knife for eight long years. Suddenly Ronald McDonald McTrump accelerates the process with a “Game of Thrones” flourish that leaves 16 heads rolling in the aisles, and all he wants for his trouble is a fucking job in TV?

Well, son, that’s one hell of an opening act. But what d’ye do for an encore?