Breaking news: It snows in winter

Banzai Buddy Boo and the Islamic terrorist holding him hostage.

Check this strange beverage that falls out from the sky, as Tom Waits once growled. Snow, and in winter, too. Who knew?

Mister Boo loves the stuff. Herself took him out for a quick trip around the block and “quick” is the operative word here. The Boo took four corners a sight faster than Davis Phinney ever did, and maybe Danica Patrick, too. His Nipponese ancestors must have hailed from the top of Mount Fuji. He looked like a bug-eyed little snowplow bounding up the sidewalk.

Not so Miss Mia Sopaipilla. The little minx slipped through the open door as I was taking a picture and instantly thought better of it, hanging a 180 and jetting back inside to criticize my weather-management skills.

Being a Russian blue, Mia’s family tree may be rooted in Stalingrad, or perhaps Siberia. But just ’cause you’re from there doesn’t mean you have to like it. You don’t see me hanging around Annapolis, after all.

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.

The days of wine and hoses

This Tavel rosé pairs well with food. It’s also pretty damn’ nice all by its lonesome.

We shipped Herself the Elder back to Tennessee this morning, or so we thought.

Her flight out of Bibleburg, slated for 10:45 a.m., didn’t go wheels up until 12:30 p.m. And her connector in Dallas was canceled, so she’s camped in the Dallas airport awaiting another. If she’s lucky she’ll be back in the loving bosom of her cats at midnight.

Meanwhile, Herself the Younger is driving home from Denver in a light snow and cursing like a sailor, because she (a) hates driving in the dark, (2) hates driving in the snow, and (iii) hates driving in the snow in the dark.

Only I am left unscathed to tell the tale, because I have the great good fortune to be unemployable and thus possessed of abundant leisure to motor hither and thither in the daylight, when it is not snowing. Thus did I hie me to the grog shop, fortified by a largish check for making things up, thence to restock the wine rack stripped bare by our Yuletide revelry.

Now I’m sipping a tart Tavel rosé and sifting mentally through the available leftovers: quite a bit of posole; the makings for a short round of tacos de papas con chorizo; some pintos in chipotle chile; the underpinnings for a second round of beef enchiladas on red chile, save the sauce.

Posole, tacos and beans it is. Even a slacker deserves a day off.

Happy solstice

Psychotic interludes from the NRA aside (can you imagine how much fun “Saturday Night Live” is gonna have with Wayne LaPendejo’s dreams of transforming every grade-schooler into a grenadier?), it was a pleasant solstice here in Bibleburg.

Herself’s mom is in town for the holidays, staying at The House Back East, and while they visited a local spa for expensive and superfluous purposes of beautification I took a break from chores to squeeze in a short ride.

I’m been running more lately, so a bit of load-bearing exercise made for a nice change of pace. It was chilly, so long sleeves and leg warmers were the uniform of the day. And fenders were a must, as there is some water on the deck; also caution, thanks to a bit of ice in shady spots.

The weaponry I left at home, even though my route took me past two schools, which thanks to LaPendejo have been exposed as exemplars of the Pussification of America and thus low-hanging fruit for the zombie slaves of Hollywood who would perforate us all in a nanosecond were it not for the eternal vigilance of the NRA (bonus Internet joke: Q. How many NRA members does it take to screw in a lightbulb? A. More guns).

But I kept the rubber side down, and nobody drew down on me, so it was all good.

Now I’m enjoying a glass of wine, getting set to feed the Pigeons (har har) and thinking about how early I have to get up the next two days. Just shoot me.

I hate 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.

Nanook rubs it

Great googly-moogly! The thermometer has been pegged at the low teens all day long. I ventured out exactly twice, the first time to broom away the light snow that fell overnight, and the second time to collect a few bottles of antifreeze from the local grog shop in order to toast my fellow Zappatistas on this, the frigid second day of Zappadan 2011.

The temps are supposed to drop to minus-7 tonight. This would feel like a relaxing soak in a hot tub to my man Charles Pelkey, who reports that last night’s low in Laramie approached minus-30. The thud of engine blocks exploding and water mains bursting must keep folks up at night.

The downside about being stuck indoors on a slow cycling-news day is that one is tempted to look at the real news, and lately that is enough to set the stoutest young Eskimo boy to beating himself upside the head with a lead-filled snowshoe. Or perhaps depriving himself of his sight through the application to the eyes (via a vigorous circular motion) of the Deadly Yellow Snow, from right there where the huskies go.

I mean, can you imagine a world in which Newt Gingrich is the front-runner for the GOP nomination for president of the United States?

Hey … I think I just cheered myself up.

There goes the neighborhood

We finally got our first real measurable snow of the season — just a few inches, but nice to see nonetheless. It'll tamp down the sand on the trails.

It can’t be 70-something and sunny all the time. Still, going from a record high of 78 to snow on the ground is something of a shock to the system.

Happily, the streets and sidewalks retained much of that heat, so I didn’t have to do any shoveling this morning — good news for the ol’ back, since I spent yesterday raking leaves from the huge maple tree that shades Chez Dog. Looks like a bumper crop, too. I’ve already filled six bags and we’re a long ways away from seeing the last leaf on the tree.

Sounds like the cops in Oakland were engaged in a little clean-up operation of their own last night. They went after the Occupy Oakland folks with everything from tear gas to flash-bang grenades and rubber bullets. According to The San Francisco Chronicle, “City officials said they had been forced to clear the encampments because of sanitary and public safety concerns.” Uh huh. Right out of Steinbeck that is, as in “The Grapes of Wrath” and the less-well-known “In Dubious Battle.”

All the stories I’ve read make references to a schism in the Occupy crowd, with some insisting on a non-violent approach and others intent on challenging the cops to a fight. I’d love to know how much of the latter is legit and how much is the work of agents provocateurs. It’s an old trick, and one that keeps working, especially on the media. The Oakland Tribune‘s account of the evening’s festivities could have been written by the PD’s PR flack.

If you’re interested in following the Occupy movement online, bookmark Greg Mitchell’s OccupyUSA blog at The Nation. It’s one of my first stops every morning.

Ice, ice, baby

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.

Winter and stupidity make a triumphant return

Tonight's forecast calls for scattered snow with flurries of stupidity.

It’s been one of those weeks, an unholy convergence of deadlines for two magazines and consultation with a third, extra shifts in the VeloBarrel while management plays in the desert (Tour of Qatar), and some actual winter weather. Nothing like the folks back east or in New Mexico have been enduring, just a mild annoyance that makes outdoor cycling iffy.

I slipped out between chores this afternoon, but waited too long to get rolling — popcorn snow was peppering my cheeks within a few minutes and then it was a sort of half-assed sleety, slushy thing going on. I was prepared, kinda, sorta, jersey pockets stuffed with everything but full booties (just toe warmers), and stopped under a bridge to add a couple layers before forging ahead.

Alas, while most of me was OK with cycling cap, tuque, winter gloves, rain jacket, two long-sleeved jerseys and a long-sleeved polypro undershirt, neoprene knee warmers, wool socks and bibs, it was the lack of booties and fenders that did me in. I hate cold feet and a wet butt the way Caribou Barbie hates smart people. And I am not one of the smarties, because I have neoprene booties and three — three! — bikes with fenders.

So I slunk home through the icy puddles, muttering to myself. “Thank God I’m not a pro,” I thought. “I’d have to do this every day, times a thousand, and then take dope on top of it all, wondering which one of the boys on the bus would wind up being my Floyd Landis.”

Chile today, hot tamale

Here’s something you don’t think about much — what happens if the natural gas goes away in the middle of a cold spell? Got a fireplace? Wood stove? Any objection to burning the furniture in the living room?

It’s not quite clear what caused the problem, but some 40,000 New Mexico Gas Co. customers apparently find themselves in this position this evening, reports the Albuquerque Journal. According to the Journal, crews have to shut down every single gas meter before gas can be returned to communities’ main lines, then return to each gas customer, purge air from the lines, test the lines, and relight the pilot lights before service can be restored. Ay, Chihuahua.

We used to fret about running out of gas from time to time in Weirdcliffe, because the propane guy hated driving up our wickedly steep road to fill the tank in evil weather, which is (duh) when you really want a full tank. But up there we had a wood stove, trees and the tools to bring the two together in fiery union. Down here in Bibleburg we have a couple of portable electric space heaters, three propane camp stoves and two cats. Oh, yeah, and a solar assist unit on the roof that mostly works only when the sun shines, which lately, eh, not so much.

Here’s hoping all my friends down thataway are staying warm this evening. As one noted: “We got some excitement down here.” Claro que si.