You can’t spell ‘news’ without ‘ew’

Mister Boo post-cleansing.

Trying to keep abreast of the news lately is like following the Budweiser Clydesdales around with a demitasse spoon and a lace napkin. Some days there’s just too much shit for one guy to shovel.

For example, this is not the first time I’m glad I don’t live in Boston.

Also, Los Angeles.

Some buttmunch (or more likely, buttmunches) stole a quarter-million euros worth of bikes and gear from a Garmin-Sharp truck parked outside the team’s hotel, putting them out of the Tour Méditerranéen.

Say it ain’t so, Cipo’.

Is that a drone in your pocket, or are you just unhappy to see me?

And so on, and so forth, etc.

Meanwhile, I have a bum knee that apparently requires physical therapy — always good news for a fella who makes his marginal living in the bike biz — and Mister Boo had to endure a bath, a nail-clipping and the expression of his anal glands this morning. So we’re all a little irritable around the DogHaus today.

How’s tricks with you? Speak up in comments.

A rough ride

A virtual bouquet for the victors in the Battle of Black Hawk.

From our Good News and Bad News Department:

First, the Colorado Supreme Court told the knuckleheads running Black Hawk to stick their bike ban where the sun don’t shine, opining that cyclists have every bit as much right to the road as do busloads of bluehairs itching to flush their Social Security checks down a two-bit casino town’s loos.

Next, not everybody was delighted with the recently concluded world cyclo-cross championships in Kentucky. Take Steve Tilford, for example. Tilly should have every reason to rejoice — after all, he won the Masters 50-54 title — but he’s seething over what he says was the organizers’ failure to provide functional bike-cleaning equipment in what proved to be an incredibly filthy contest.

Now, I have no interest in casino towns. I consider gambling a tax on stupidity, which should be painful, if only in the wallet pocket. But I’m forced to take note when the highwaymen who run these shitholes tell me I can’t pass through unless I’m in an officially approved vehicle. So chapeau to the cyclists who got ticketed and fought the sonsabitches all the way to the Supremes, and won. They should celebrate with a bicycle parade through Black Hawk, the bigger the better.

As for worlds, well, I wasn’t there, but from a distance it looked like a fairly hellish weekend for all concerned, especially the poor sods struggling to keep the rising Ohio River and Beargrass Creek from turning the course into a water park.

That said, having raced nearly all of my “career” as a masters racer, I got used to shabby treatment early on. Masters racers are the equivalent of the casino’s bluehairs — the marks, the rubes, the suckers, genial nitwits who amble in to get fleeced and then shooed out to grow a fresh coat so the promoters can keep the lights on for the main act. I never raced a world championship, but there were plenty of times when nobody in authority could be bothered to tell me how I placed, much less help me keep my bike operational.

They always managed to cash the check, though.

There’s snow in them thar hills

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.

A Rove-ing down memory lane

The Kona Rove is a cyclo-cross-slash-whatever bike, with eyelets for racks and fenders and plenty of clearance for tires forbidden by the UCI.

The departure of the flu coincided with a return of springlike weather, so I’ve been spending some time outdoors of late, searching for my lost legs.

It’s been three weeks since the bug laid me low, and my pipes are still not quite up to snuff — I’m gonna have to refill that albuterol prescription one of these days — but nonetheless it’s been pleasant to be out and about, far from the iMac and its penchant for delivering evil tidings.

The bike of choice lately has been the Kona Rove, which as mentioned in an earlier post is on deck in the Adventure Cyclist hit parade. As usual, I can’t say much about it until the paying customers get theirs, but I will note that it’s not a touring bike — the Sutra fills that particular niche for Kona.

I had to put a little Irish on the front fender’s left strut (it’s much better than English) to work around the Hayes disc brake.

Nope, the Rove is one of those whatever bikes, which is to say that whatever you feel like riding it will handle without complaint.

It’s been interesting to watch the industry come up with a fresh take on the kind of machinery I rode when we lived up Weirdcliffe way. I tried to get Brent Steelman to build me a drop-bar mountain bike to tackle the wealth of gravel roads, two-track and single-track we had up there, but as I recall he had doubts about welding up such a weirdo.

So instead I made do with one of his old CC cyclo-cross bikes. Brent billed the CC as “a 700c mountain bike” — in fact, it may have been one of the earliest 29ers — and in its final configuration before I sold it to a friend its Excell frameset wore 700×40 Ritchey rubber, a triple (46/36/24), a seven-speed 105 drivetrain (12-28) and bar-end shifters.

The Rove comes stock with a set of 700×35 Freedom by WTB Ryders, but it likewise can handle 700×40 tires, and with fenders, too. Go without fenders and you can run tractor tires, if that’s your idea of a good time.

The Rove is considerably burlier than my old CC, in part because it uses Hayes CX5 disc brakes for stoppers instead of a pair of Dia-Compe 986 cantis.

Of course, its rider is considerably burlier than was the old ’crosser who used to race that CC, so I’ll hold my fire in that regard, stone-wise.

And besides, that which does not kill you makes you stronger, right? The flu didn’t get me, and I doubt the Rove will, unless I try to pick it up and run with it. That would be just begging for it.

Showing the colors

The Turk’ suns himself in the living room.

You know what’s even better than not watching Ol’ Whatsisface gnaw through his lower lip while pretending to be sorry for what he did instead of for getting caught at it?

Riding your own damn’ bike for the first time in two weeks on a sunny, 55-degree afternoon, that’s what.

My pipes felt a tad rusty after the flu, and I wished for a big hit of albuterol, but that would’ve been doping. So I made do with a cough drop and a hefty dose of moral superiority.

Before getting back in the saddle I mounted fenders to the Kona Rove, which is next up in the Adventure Cyclist review queue.

Ever fit fenders to a disc-brake-equipped bike? Me neither. What it takes — for the front wheel, anyway — is a pretty abrupt bend in the left-side fender stay, a long-ass bolt and a spacer of some sort. I used about an inch of the plastic housing from a cheap pen liberated from a motel, which saved me a trip to the hardware store.

After two weeks on the disabled list I resembled a cyclist about as much as Ol’ Whatsisface resembles a penitent, but like him I didn’t care. It was enough to be out there.

Ten days that shook the ribs

Baby, it’s cold outside.

Ten days after the flu sank its meathooks into my respiratory system I’m finally starting to feel like a primate instead of a paramecium.

And there’s no danger of being tempted to imperil my fragile recovery by throwing myself headlong into a futile attempt to recover all those miles unridden because it’s 8 degrees and snowing.

It would be just like me to rocket out the door in search of a nasty case of bronchitis and perhaps a broken bone or two, so I think I’ll surprise the universe and stay indoors, maybe ride the trainer gently for a half hour or so.

Speaking of disease, beyond my little cocoon the speculation as regards impending revelations by the One Ball To Rule Them All has reached a fever pitch, and don’t I wish I could give a shit. Watching him summon the Reverend Mutha Gaius Helen Winfrey and her rubber gom jabbar to Pelotaville for a televised confessional in hopes of getting his personal gravy train back on the rails looks very little like a penitente journeying to the Sanctuario de Chimayó on his knees.

I can’t decide which cultural reference to deploy here. Is it an unrepentant Alex insisting that the Int Inf Min spoon-feed him in his hospital bed? Or is it Lucy at the chocolate factory, only with the chocolate being money and Lucy a great white shark and the assembly line running not too fast, but rather not fast enough?

“What’s it going to be then, eh?” I’m going to go with Alex here, because no matter what we may hear on Thursday, I suspect that a “cure” forced is no cure at all, and we will have our malevolent little droogie on our hands for quite a while yet.

Hell of the Northwest

The USA Pro Challenge peloton zips down Tejon Street in Bibleburg in the 2012 edition. Photo: Herself | Mad Dog Media

The USA Pro Challenge (which is still a stupid name) has unveiled its route for 2013, and maybe it’s time to start calling the race the Tour of Colorado Ski Country USA (which is equally stupid, but at least tells you something about the event).

No Durango. No Colorado Springs. No Boulder. Yes to Aspen/Snowmass, Breckenridge, Steamboat Springs, Beaver Creek and Vail.

Loveland/Fort Collins made the cut, which is good, as Fort Collins has a rockin’ cycling scene. And Denver appears to be a mortal lock as the event’s Champs-Élysées; last year’s snoozer of a time trial is history in favor of a circuit race.

But it’s too bad that Southern Colorado gets shut out. There’s already bugger-all for lesser events south of the Palmer Divide — those tree-hugging sissies in Boulder are afeared that Jeebus and/or the NRA will git ‘em if they dare to venture down this way to race they bicycles — and now anyone who wants to see The Big Show will have to crank up the idiot box or the family tank.

Ski areas have all the infrastructure (especially the green folding kind) that an event like this requires, of course. And it certainly doesn’t help that organizers have been known to pull enticing attendance figures right out of their asses, irking locals who found themselves coughing up big bucks for very little bang. Still, it would be neat to see the Stupidly Named Race visit less-heralded locations like Pueblo, Trinidad, Cuchara, Weirdcliffe or Function Junction.

I’d like to see a real weirdo stage that concluded up Phantom Canyon Road to Cripple Creek-Victor, or worked in Pass Creek Road and Old La Veta Pass. But I’m funny that way. Maybe not. Ain’t enough gold in them thar hills, I’m a-guessin’.

All the news that fits, we print (part four)

It’s official — Competitor Group Inc., which owns Velo magazine and VeloNews.com, has been sold to Calera Capital.

All you’ll ever need to know about the corporate buccaneers who did for VeloNews what Bain Capital did for Ampad is contained in the press release issued today from CGI HQ in San Diego. David Moross, chairman of Falconhead Capital, which owned CGI before the sale to Calera, made sure to give credit where credit was due:

“Five years ago we set out to build a leading company in an industry that was highly fragmented, but well positioned for tremendous growth,” said Falconhead Chairman David Moross. “Competitor Group has grown dramatically during this period and realized much of the potential we originally envisioned. This success is due to the original strategy we developed to create the company, and the hard work of our very talented management team and our board of directors.”

Emphasis mine. Yes, sacking cancer victims, veteran Tour correspondents and crackerjack ad salesmen takes talent and hard work, like hitting your own thumb with a five-pound sledge, setting yourself ablaze while trying to drink a Flaming Jesus, or stepping on your dick while fleeing a raid at a Vegas whorehouse. I expect that no matter what the future holds, the boyos in Boulder will be glad to see the last of Cap’n Moross and his pirate crew. Arrr.

All the news that fits, we print (part three)

While I was focused on the sale of our “local” daily newspaper to yet another out-of-town right-winger I overlooked reports that the owner of Velo magazine and VeloNews.com, Competitor Group Inc., has likewise been sold — to another venture-capital outfit, Calera Capital.

As with the sale of the Gazette to Denver billionaire Philip Anschutz, I know nothing about what this may mean for Velo/VeloNews.com’s readers and advertisers. Based on a casual glance at its website, Calera, like Anschutz, appears to have a wide range of financial interests, from banking to forest products to truck stops. Unlike Anschutz, it appears to have had no interest or involvement in media prior to this purchase.

The reports remain unconfirmed by corporate spokescreatures, save for one anonymous insider who told Bicycle Retailer and Industry News that “it’s a done deal. …”

More as (or if) I hear it.

Barking dogs, fat flies and spider webs

Turkish enjoys a sunny spot on the drawing board after a hard day of doing … well … not much of anything, really.

Whew. We appear to have survived another Thanksgiving-Black Friday combo. But it was a near thing. I don’t know how professional cooks survive all those hours on their feet — ’bout dark-thirty yesterday my dogs commenced to bark and they haven’t stopped yet.

A couple of friends popped round last night to split a bottle of sparking rosé and eat some leftovers, which I swear to God took nearly as long to reheat as the original meal did to cook. They also brought some killer green-chile-and-jack wontons with a guacamole garnish that put our heat-it-and-eat-it to shame.

Anyway, we stayed up too late and drank too much and today we all felt a tad listless for some reason, even the four-legged crowd, which does not imbibe (see Turkish, at right).

After a few hours of puttering around the ranch Herself toddled off for a short run and I took a break from work to ride the Jamis Supernova around Monument Valley Park, which proved a bad idea. I felt like a fat fly negotiating a spider web constructed of retractable dog leashes and feckin’ eejits.

Now I’m wrapping up the day’s paying chores, sipping a 5 Barrel Pale Ale and contemplating the evening meal. Whaddaya think? Turkey, turkey or … turkey?