Arise, ye prisoners of dehydration

September 17, 2026September 17, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 20 Comments

All the leaves are brown, and the sky is gray.

The rain continues.

Clearly the gods have finally heard our sniveling here in the northernmost reaches of the Chihuahuan Desert. UnRealtors throughout the Greater Duck! City Metropolitan Area rejoice and sing “Hosanna!” Which is not a Gilda Radner character from Back in the Day® when “SNL” was still funny.

Anyone hoping to float the Rio anytime soon will still need 32-inch wheels, knobby tires, and hydraulic disc brakes for their rafts and kayaks. Nevertheless, arise, ye prisoners of dehydration, etc.

Raindrops keep falling on my head. Maybe with a little fertilizer I can get a fresh crop of hair started up there.

I went running in the rain yesterday, and it seems that I will be doing it again today, if I want to enjoy any class of healthful outdoor exercise, which I do. There’s not enough water for swimming — not yet, anyway, unless you’re suddenly awakened while sleeping rough in an arroyo — and since Herself works from home on Thursdays, if I should happen to make an indoor thing of myself she will find some chore for me to perform.

Anyway, running in the rain gets me away from the Mac, where the news is.

Jesus wept. The Squeaker of the House just shut the joint down and sent all his clock-watching monkey-spankers home after doing less actual work in the past few months than Mitch McConnell, who at least had the excuse of being kept alive in cryogenic sleep while RFK sewed him up a new body out of fresh roadkill and a couple prehistoric Trump Steaks from Natalie’s freezer.

Too bad. I was looking forward to watching that caravan of fools try to impeach Field Marshal Scheisskopf von Kegsbreath while he heaves and grunts through a few of his weak-ass pullups, stinking of cheap O-club gin and kicking his legs like a cranky toddler resisting bedtime.

That’s probably why Beelzebozo ordered RFK to rebuild The Turtle. He wanted to make sure the Senate had the numbers to keep Kegsbreath on his sinking PBR, if the House actually grew a pair, and if that meant reinstalling the old Kentucky roadblock as a collection of rotting coonskins that Dan’l Boone wouldn’t wear to a goat fuck, well, tough shit, Mitch. Die on your own time.

‘Run awaaaaayyyyyy. …’

January 25, 2026January 25, 2026 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 6 Comments

Well, so much for the Great January Blizzard.

I make it maybe two, three inches, tops. Didn’t have to drive in it, so, winning. Did have to shovel it, so Herself could drive in it.

You win some, you lose some.

By the time I got around to shoveling, a lot of what we got proved broomable. Which is excellent, as our steepish, north-facing driveway is an ER visit just waiting to happen.

I work the thing starting from the top, because the top stays in the shade this time of year. Then, as I reach the steepest pitch, I pivot to the stone steps, walk down to the cul-de-sac, and start working my way back up. Any missteps while leaning uphill should involve less velocity and impact. Or so it is to be hoped, anyway.

The cycling is right out. I have been a cyclocrosser, but not since 2004 or thereabouts. There’s a car wash down the way, but I don’t have any quarters, and the last time Herself caught me cleaning a bike in the shower it was damn near all she wrote for the marriage.

So I’ll probably go for a short run in my mud shoes. I ran yesterday between rainstorms, and it looks like I’ll be running again tomorrow. That’s three straight days of running, for you folks keeping score at home, or two more than I can honestly claim to enjoy.

But it beats riding the stationary trainer. I believe getting pepper-sprayed by the ICEholes would beat riding the stationary trainer.

Don’t tell the ICEholes.

Blue Monday

December 29, 2025 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 15 Comments

Winter, being less than tempestuous around here, always catches me with my pants down. Then up. Then down. Then up. …

Take yesterday, for example. It wasn’t all that cold, but there was a stiff, bitter wind out of the northwest. I briefly considered and swiftly rejected a bike ride, then set about trying to figure out what to wear for a short trail run.

Jaysis wept, etc. The winter clothing options in my dresser look like the “Free” box at the last day of a garage sale in a bad neighborhood.

Paddygucci base layers from when they were still made in the US of A. Hind tights old enough to run for president, in any season. Prehistoric Smartwool socks that couldn’t even make the cut for that “Free” box.

And none of this gear has a pocket for the iPhone, which I have carried religiously since breaking an ankle during a tech-free run five years ago (unable to summon a chariot like a king wounded in battle I had to serf home using a downed tree limb as a crutch). One long-sleeved Columbia top, a bit of VeloNews swag, sports a zippered iPod pocket in the left sleeve, with cutouts for earbud wires. Anybody remember iPods? Wired earbuds? Or VeloNews, for that matter?

In the end I chose the Columbia top (leaving the iPod and earbuds at home); the warmest (and possibly eldest) of my Paddygucci base-layer shirts; Darn Tough wool socks; Sugoi tuque; Smartwool gloves; and the lightweight Paddygucci Terrebonne pants I shredded when I broke the ankle (three pockets plus plenty of holes if I wanted to choose the scenic route for the earbud wires from the iPod I wasn’t packing).

And thus equipped, as Herself and I were jogging up the final winding climb before the paved descent back to El Rancho Pendejo, I thought, “Goddamnit. I am totally overdressed for this shit. I should’ve gone for a ride.”

Ditch that rut

June 26, 2025 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 4 Comments

Ruts. I’ve been stuck in a couple lately.

Take the 20-mile ride around the foothills. Please. Sure, you do enough of them, they add up to a nice pile of miles at week’s end. But still, damn.

Also, the not running. I never have been and never will be a “runner.” But as Richard Pryor has taught us, running is a useful skill to have at one’s disposal in case of emergency.

But you got to stay in shape and shit, ’cause you never can tell when in real life you will have to … run! That’s right, run. Goddamnit, run. Why get killed when you can … run! That’s right, a lot of people get a ass-whipping, and you could run. You’ll be in the hospital, your ego will heal a lot faster than a broken jaw. ’Cause you’ll still be in the hospital talking about “Shit, I should have run.” Run! That’s right! If somebody pull a knife on you, and you can’t pull out nothing but a hand with some skin on it, your intelligence ought to tell you to … run!

So I’m slowly easing back into running — nothing outlandish, just a 5K, one per week — just in case anybody gets the idea that I’d be a whole lot quieter in a hospital with my piehole wired shut.

And I’m trying to break my oh-so-convenient 20-miles-in-the-foothills habit. Today I logged a 33-miler, descending to the bosque for a looksee — some dipshit(s) have been setting fires down there — and then climbing back to El Rancho Pendejo.

This three-hour ride weaves together several of the local off-street bike paths, which is a pleasant change of pace from, say, Tramway, which always makes me feel like a cottontail on a rifle range. That itch between the shoulder blades, etc.

And at the bosque I was rewarded with my first coyote sighting of 2025. Right troublesome little bastards they can be, but I still like seeing them. I’ll take an honest coyote over the devious dawgs of DeeCee any old day.

Summer simmer

June 20, 2025June 20, 2025 ~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 20 Comments

Scattered sprinkles, widespread haze, sunny and hot, sez the forecast for the first day of summer.

It was already 75° when we got up at 5:30 to greet the first day of summer. Helluva note when you open the doors and windows to let the cool morning air stream in and the air conditioning clicks on.

The wind was likewise in business, too, so Herself and I decided to go for a short trail run instead of a ride. We’d spent a couple hours yesterday cycling through the foothills and saw all the quail, from solos to pairs to coveys with adults herding thumb-sized offspring.

Today was my first run in a couple weeks so I wasn’t exactly crushing it. Still, it felt good to be lumbering along without all that specialized kit and machinery. Just shorts, shirt, and shoes. Put one foot in front of the other and try not to fall down.

CenturyLink fell down yesterday. Or Lumen did. AT&T? Whatever the hell that outfit is calling itself these days. You should’ve heard what we and the rest of its customers nationwide were calling it yesterday when it went tits up for the better part of quite some time and even the minimalist corporate website vanished like civil rights in an ICE storm.

We’ve been trained by bitter experience not to bother fencing with CenturyLumen’s chatbots and “live agents.” Instead we used our Verizon iPhones as hotspots and never missed a beat, even streaming a couple episodes from season three of “The Bear” as preparation for season four, which kicks off June 25.

Speaking of cussing, anybody who thinks I swear overmuch in the kitchen should check out “The Bear.” That crowd makes me sound like Nate Bargatze doing crowd work at a Southern Baptist picnic, even when I accidentally oversalt the arugula pesto, like I did last night.

It wasn’t quite like eating seaweed straight from the ocean, but it wasn’t exactly Michelin-star-level dining either, chef.