Back to the grind

Bilbo Baggins’ Road goes ever on and on, but mine came to a halt on Sunday. Monday I spent in the usual post-expedition fog, and today it was time to get back to business.

Herself lacks my interest in the culinary arts, so it’s a given that when I come home from a road trip there will be exactly jack-shit in the house to eat. After we burned through the steak, spuds and salad it quickly became apparent that someone would have to replenish the pantry, and as usual that someone was me.

The Turk' catches some rays in the backyard.

So today, I hit the grocery — and man, did it ever hit back. Two hundred smacks down Whole Paycheck’s organic rathole for tasty bits of this and that. I should just sign over my Velo checks to these dudes and be done with it.

The good news is that the week’s menu will include fusilli draped with a spicy all’arrabbiata sauce full of red pepper flakes, capers and black olives; kung pao chicken with white rice; sausage and cheese enchiladas in red sauce with Mexican rice; chicken quesadillas; and chicken enchiladas in green sauce with a side of roasted potatoes in red chile. Can you tell I’ve been to Santa Fe recently? Yeah, me too.

Meanwhile, the Turk’ has been enjoying plenty of outside time since my return. Getting him in a harness is like sticking a hand in a running blender, and since he’s mostly my cat he’s mostly my problem.

No worries. I’ve been getting my furry brother hooked up so he can live the feline dream in the backyard, hunting grasshoppers and enjoying the last few days of summertime in Bibleburg.

Return of the Interbiker: The last good breakfast

Sausage and cheese enchiladas at the Guadalupe Cafe in Santa Fe. The wait for a table was hitting 45 minutes when I got there, and worth every second.

COLORADO SPRINGS, Colo. — Well, the last one that I didn’t have to cook, anyway.

I swung through Santa Fe post-Interbike and noshed at the Guadalupe Cafe, which frankly was batshit crazy at 11 a.m. Sunday, with the sort of line one associates with banks giving away free money.

And small wonder, because the food is always stellar.

I had my usual, the sausage and cheese enchiladas with a side of papas smothered in brick-red chile, and two cups of coffee.

As I ate, I thought briefly about putting a condo on the credit card and never going home. But then I realized that the cats would miss me terribly (yeah, right) and Herself would be eating out of cans while her kin hunted me with baseball bats, and I ain’t talkin’ catch-and-release here. Plus I’d already had a week of waking up without her around and that’s about six days too many.

So I gassed up and beat it for Bibleburg, arriving right around dinnertime.

To atone for my sins, per Herself’s request, I grilled a flatiron steak from Ranch Foods Direct and mashed up some spuds with heavy cream, butter, chives and parsley; she assembled a massive salad and we enjoyed a couple drams while I regaled her with tales from the bike show.

This morning it was what we call “smooshy eggs,” which is basically eggs boiled medium-hard, peeled and mashed with butter, salt and pepper, with spelt toast, java and juice on the side. Lunch was leftover dinner.

And tomorrow? Man. I’ll be lucky to slap together some toast and cold cereal. Someone around here needs to hit the grocery. Guess who? Home again, home again, dancing a jig.

Return of the Interbiker: Bibleburg to Flagstaff

The obligatory shot of Bibleburg receding at speed in the rear-view mirror.

FLAGSTAFF, Ariz. — Whenever I take one of these journalistic road trips I quickly come to wish I’d gone into another line of work. Like, say, the manufacture and distribution of orange traffic cones.

I don’t believe I’ve ever driven Interstate 40 when it wasn’t under construction, and today this record remains intact. If only I’d had the foresight to major in traffic cones instead of journalism! With double minors in orange barrels and orange signs, of course. I could buy the 2012 elections, and wouldn’t that be interesting. Maybe not.

Cerrillos in Santa Fe was a construction clusterfuck, too. It was something of a struggle to enjoy my evening ales at Second Street Brewery, my breakfast burrito at Tia Sophia and a leisurely soak at Ten Thousand Waves. But I got them all done, and in that precise order, because I know that you, Dear Readers, expect nothing less than perfection in recreation from Your Humble Narrator.

Now I’m at a Motel 6 in Flagstaff and wishing I’d fetched a piece along, as per my usual practice. The place has backslid along with the economy and I’m pretty sure there is at least one flatbacker working the joint alongside the usual collection of chain-smoking toothless weirdos, grinning ax murderers and illegals camping 12 to a room. But there is wifi, so we have that going for us. I can webcast a digital appeal for help as the serial killers dismember me in front of my own webcam.

Meanwhile, I ignored the national slobbering over the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. I didn’t hear anyone mention their most chilling effect — turning us into a nation of cheapjack, chickenshit bullies who wiped our collective asses with our own Constitution and then set about roaming the globe, shoving that stained document into brown people’s faces.

Instead I listened to a nonstop collection of Tom Waits CDs: Real Gone, Blood Money, Mule Variations, Small Change and Alice. Now I have a party in my head and an idea for a fireworks display.

Tomorrow: Vegas. Pray for me.

Home again, home again

Turkish shows his delight at my return ("Ho, hum, were you gone? I didn't notice.")

Agh. Reality rears its ugly head once again. I am no longer a snowbird but a jailbird, locked in a cell of my own making, which is to say I’m back at work for VeloNews.com, posting stories about cycling instead of cycling my own bad self. Oh, the humanity.

Ten Thousand Waves was a treat as always, and I wished that I could have spent ten thousand years there, but without money there are no vacations and without work there is no money, so there you have it. But it’s a rude awakening nonetheless.

Turkish — a.k.a. The Turkinator, Turkenstein, Big Pussy, Mighty Whitey, et al. — was confused and displeased by my sudden reappearance at dinnertime and took a while to reacquaint himself with the luxury of the Large Irish Lap. Which, I might add, is a little less luxurious after 240 miles of roadwork — I’m down to 172.5 pounds, which for me is positively svelte. I bet it only takes me a trip and a half to haul ass now.

Miss Mia Sopaipilla, clearly smarter and braver than her big brother, instantly remembered who I was and marched right up to me for an ear rub while Turk’ pussyfooted around with a look of distrust on his whiskered mug. But eventually he came around and I was able to scratch his big shovel-shaped head without losing a finger.

Naturally, Herself recognized me straight away as the profligate swine who has been causing the Visa card to smoke like a poorly tuned diesel for the past couple of weeks. But she forgave me and even cracked a bottle of The Prisoner to celebrate my return. That rascal will rattle your cage at 15.2 percent alcohol by volume.

And so will clocking in at the old license-plate factory after 12 days on the road. Hey, screw, call my lawyer! I don’t belong in here … I’m innocent, I tell ya!

Cold comfort

The iPhone warns of cloudy skies ahead as we motor north through New Mexico toward a frostbitten Santa Fe.

So much for spring break. Our tour wrapped up on Friday afternoon and I spent the evening in a South Tucson motel enjoying all the benefits of modern living — hot shower, cold beer, a bed that doesn’t stuff neatly into a waterproof sack and of course, another combo plate at El Minuto. Two of my riding buddies and I went there post-tour to eat, drink and talk of things both great and small before drifting back to the motel for a dolorous chorus of hasta la vista muchachos, compañeros de mi vida.

Come morning at least five cars had been burgled in the parking lot, windows bashed out and various items liberated in the name of the people, and the manager was muttering about chicken-shit gangbangers and forming a motel owners’ co-op to hire armed security. Seemed like a good time to get out of Dodge, as my weaponry consisted of a Swiss army knife and a rapier-like wit.

I hit the road in shorts and T-shirt, watching gloomily as the Subie’s thermometer slid from the high 60s to the low 40s by Socorro, New Mexico, where I switched to jeans and long sleeves.

Don't let the sun fool you — it's 25 degrees outside of the Guadalupe Cafe.

By dinner (green-chile cheeseburger, fries and IPA at Second Street Brewery in Santa Fe) I had pulled on a fleece jacket and gimme cap. First day of spring, my large Irish ass.

But wait, it gets worse. En route to a platter of sausage-and-cheese enchiladas this morning at the Guadalupe Cafe I was wishing I’d thought to tug on a tuque and winter gloves; the Subie told me it was all of 25 degrees in The City Different. Waaah.

Well, whatever. Nut up or shut up, as Woody Harrelson said in “Zombieland.” As soon as the sun gets a little higher in the sky I plan to soak my battered carcass in the public tub at Ten Thousand Waves, no matter what the ambient temperature, and then it’s off for the final leg of my trip, over icy Raton Pass and back to Bibleburg. Rain and snow are in the forecast until Friday, and I fear for my larval tan lines.

But the pants fit a little more loosely, and I kind of like that feeling, so I’ll break out a fendered cyclo-cross bike and reacquaint myself with neoprene kit in the never-ending struggle to keep my inner fat bastard under lock and key.

Parking it

No, it's not another Bibleburg homeless encampment — it's the Southern Arizona Road Adventurers, camping in the town park in Bisbee, Arizona.

Ah, wi-fi. Back to civilization, such as it is. What it is, is Bisbee, Arizona, where we’re enjoying a layover day in the town park. This means the tents get to stay up an extra day, which cuts down on the carnival atmosphere a bit and gives everyone a chance to rest, regroup and reorganize.

After yesterday’s rigors some of us opted for bed-and-breakfasts or hotels rather than spend another night in wind-battered tents, so I poached a little bathroom time from one of them and shaved for the first time since Saturday. I was starting to look like Papa Hemingway, only without all that annoying talent.

Everyone’s hoping for a little less wind — or, even better, a tailwind — when we return to Tombstone tomorrow via a different route. Me, I’m hoping to find some Guinness on tap tonight, St. Patrick’s Day being a holy day among my people (the Drunkards).

But there’s some local ale to be had here, so if the Micks don’t come through, I’m sure there will be alternatives. Last night it was Moose Drool — and yes, it tastes better than it sounds.

Java jive

The very latest in Road Trip Breakfast Technology (circa 2005): a cup of Starbucks and a 12-inch G4 PowerBook.

Comfort zone: A cage just big enough so that when you sit at its center, strangers can’t poke you through the bars with sharp sticks.

Like many of you, I’m a creature of habit. For instance, I must have powerful coffee immediately upon arising in the morning or someone will suffer. I used to haul a small espresso machine around, but in the age of a Starbucks on every street corner this has become unnecessary.

Or so I thought.

This morning I ambled into the motel’s breakfast nook and poured myself a cup of what appeared to be used chain degreaser, only not as tasty. Down the loo it went and out the door I went, cursing and spitting, in search of the velvety black jumper cables of life.

I prefer to deal with locally owned java shops when traveling but there was no time to waste on scientific experimentation. And besides, my motel is near the airport and nothing else. You’d think that where there are travelers there would be grog shops, taverns, alehouses, pubs, cafés, cantinas and yes, coffee shops, but not in South Tucson. Bubba. You want hot asphalt, fast food and faster cars, you’re in the right place. Everything else must be found elsewhere.

Incredibly, the nearest Starbucks was five miles away. A 10-minute drive! And I had to make it without coffee! Oh, the humanity. But I scored — a tall Americano, plus a bagel with cream cheese and a pint of Naked orange juice to stave off the scurvy (yeah, I checked out the motel’s “breakfast” before leaving, too).

Editor’s note: No motel staffers were harmed in the making of this blog post.

Stoned again

Everything's bigger in Texas, even when it's in Arizona.

I remember being impressed by Texas Canyon when I was 26 and leaving Colorado Springs for a job at The Arizona Daily Star.

Back then I was piloting a 1973 Datsun pickup that contained my entire life, including a motley mutt name of Jojo who followed me everywhere like a debt collector.

This time around I was 55 and herding a 2005 Subaru Forester full of bike crap, camping gear and journalism tools, and the only dog in the hunt was me.

But it’s still an impressive sight. Looks like God had a few rocks left over and decided to store them here.

In The Old Pueblo

El Minuto — a Tucson fixture since 1939 and a fave of mine since 1980.

My combo-plate tour of the Southwest continues with a visit to El Minuto in Tucson. I first ate there back in 1980, and whenever I’m back in town it’s the first place I stop.

The food isn’t like the fiery grub you get in northern New Mexico — it’s more like the Tex-Mex that hooked me as a kid in San Antone. The mild red sauce has a tomato tang, I’m pretty sure the tacos have some potato in ’em (I always gobble them down too quickly to be sure), and the beans are refried instead of whole. Good stuff all around, and smack dab between La Choza and El Sombrero in terms of price point.

The drive west was uneventful. Giant vehicles remain all the rage in this part of the nation, whether people need them or not, and Texicans with regard for neither law nor order owned the left lane from Las Cruces all the way to Tucson, roaring past the rest of us like Soviet apparatchiks passing proles in the Moscow Zil lanes. They gave no quarter, and even Californicators moved over to let them pass.

While dodging the sons of the Lone Star State I enjoyed periodic bursts of philosophy from the New Mexico Department of Transportation: “Dust storms may exist.” Ah, but then again they may not. And they didn’t.

The Suburu’s thermometer flirted with 60 but never quite closed the deal until I crossed into Arizona around 1. It’s 69 and sunny now, and doesn’t that feel good to this ghostly pale gabacho. I won’t be wearing three jerseys while riding around these parts. But I will be wearing a shitload of sunscreen.

• Late update: After getting settled at the hotel I thought about driving back into Tucson proper for a pint or two at Gentle Ben’s Brewing Company, but I wasn’t in the mood to deal with the traffic, which is slightly insane. Instead I picked up a sixer of another local microbrew, the IPA from Nimbus Brewing Company. Drinkable, but not spectacular; last night’s pints at High Desert were much livelier. In other news, tomorrow morning’s update may be the last on this site for a couple of days — I don’t believe I’ll have wi-fi again until Tombstone. So keep an eye on maddogmedia.wordpress.com for the latest in vertical gain and pain management.

• Later update: How could I forget? Today is not only Herself’s birthday, it’s Jack Kerouac’s birthday. An auspicious day to be on the road. Herself was treated to a pleasant dinner at The Blue Star by our mutual friends Steve and Doris, but Jack got jack shit ’cause he’s all like dead and stuff.

Lord, I’m southbound

I always like those stretches of highway that look like launching pads.

The road goes ever on and on, as Bilbo sang. This one is Interstate 25 in New Mexico, and if you’re riding with me it goes south with stops at Frank and Lupe’s El Sombrero in Socorro and the High Desert Brewing Company in Las Cruces.

You will recall that Bilbo and the gang rarely let a good road trip interfere with eating and drinking. Ponies being smarter than Subarus, I saved my drinking for the end of the day’s travels.