Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!

Hey, bud!
Hey, bud!

It’s probably a good thing I snapped a pic of our apricot tree this afternoon, when it was still a balmy 60-something and sunny.

Shortly thereafter sprang up from the north a blossom-shredding, sandblasting wind that would have done credit to “Lawrence of Arabia.” I ventured into it, briefly, to take out the trash, and spent the next half hour scouring Wyoming’s topsoil from my nostrils using a melon baller.

Next up is the rain, with snow on deck. Tomorrow should be about 40 degrees less enchanting than today, which is probably just as well, as I have journalism to do and being confined to quarters serves marvelously to sharpen one’s focus on the task at hand.

There’s snow in them thar hills

Snow? In January? who'da thunk it?
Snow? In January? who’da thunk it?

The weekend was a tad busy, and come Monday I had a minor case of the ass.

I wanted, needed, to go for a ride — especially since I have a couple of bikes that need reviewing in fairly short order — but my usual routes had become yawn-inducing, an affliction that surfaces from time to time, like malaria or herpes.

The weather had mostly been sunny and dry, so I decided to spend a couple hours dicking around on the trails in Palmer Park, and riding a fendered MonsterCrosser® on the bone-dry single-track proved a pleasant change of pace.

Good thing I got ’er done when I did, too. Because we awakened this morning to a heavy wet blanket of snow on the deck. Thus today’s exercise consisted mainly of upper-body work, to wit, shoveling.

I’m not complaining, though. This ongoing drought is no joke — come Thursday, we’re back to another stretch of sunny, windy and 50-something — and I fear for our silver maple, which shades my office window. It takes a lot of water to keep a big tree happy, and an inch or two of snow every couple of years won’t do the trick.

Frosty the Snowdog

Second snow of fall 2012
This being Zappadan, you are strongly advised to watch out where the huskies go.

Imagine my astonishment when I arose this morning to find a December morning that looked like … well, like a December morning.

The temperature has yet to reach the forecast high of 20 degrees, and there is an evil wind out of the north, which took all the joy right out of snow dispersal. As usual, no shoveling was required; a broom was equal to the task. Or would have been, had the underlying layer of snow not been frozen tight to the sidewalk.

All in all, a fine day for remaining inside, where the whiskey is.

I hate February

What passes for snow in February
A little cranky commentary on the back deck. I thought about putting it out front but property values are already low enough around here.

Fourteen degrees with a 12-mph wind out of the south and maybe a half inch of fluffy white powder on the deck — just three of the reasons that February sucks.

Weather like this makes me want to eat grease, drink whiskey and buy things, not necessarily in that order. I just looked back through a few old training logs and the February entries are full of low mileage and foul language. The month is bad for the legs and worse for the mind.

It doesn’t help that colleagues are taunting me from Tucson, where they have spent a few days test-riding bikes under sunny skies in 70-degree temps. There’s nothing a journalist likes better than seeing an open wound and the salt shaker within easy reach. Oh, the humanity.

Me, I did an hour of cyclo-cross in a bitter north wind on Thursday and about 90 minutes of unimpressive riding in a surprisingly snowy and wet Palmer Park yesterday. Who knew that last little poot of a snowstorm would linger as it did? Not me, and now I have a bike that needs a wash and brush-up.

Today I’m trying to nudge myself into the first trainer ride of 2012, but the pep talk is not going well. Cycling indoors is right up there with daytime TV, cybersex and listening to Republicans speak.

Ice, ice, baby

Pikes Peak
The big hill got a dusting overnight, but nothing like the three feet reported at Wolf Creek.

Thirty-seven degrees this morning. Snow on Pikes Peak. Wearing pants — in the house! I can feel my tan lines fading already.

Now commences the annual ritual of hunting down winter cycling kit. Long-fingered gloves, tuque, long-sleeved jerseys, arm, knee and leg warmers, tights, jacket, all that good shit. It’s around here somewhere, but I’ve been trying mighty hard not to think of it, reasoning that to imagine winter is to bring it on.

Today’s high is expected to reach only the 50s, and the NWS expects rain and snow tonight. Down with the pergola cover, out with the snow shovel, unplug and coil the garden hoses. Good thing I whipped up a big pot of vegetable beef soup last night. There’s a chuck roast in the ’fridge, free-range pork in the freezer and bottles of warming red wine nestled in the rack.

The U.S. Gran Prix of Cyclocross is coming to Fort Collins, but I won’t be there. I’ll be right here, chained to the desk, pushing pixels for The Man. At least I’ll be warm, well fed and wined to the eyeballs.