Splish, splash, I’ll be takin’ the cash

Well, shit. Some crazy bastard tried to rob my favorite grog shop last night.

Dude pops in, squirts a clerk and a customer with lighter fluid and demands cash. Clerk says something along the lines of “Kiss my ass,” the bandit tries to come around the counter, and another clerk produces a baseball bat. Exit bandit, stage left.

It was the second attempt in less than 24 hours at robbery by flamethrower, too. Dude actually got money from a hotel clerk the first time around. Grog-shop clerks must be made of sterner stuff.

And times must be harder than I thought. It’s usually all knives and guns around here. Hell of a note when the bandits have to retire their PPKs and go all BBQ on a citizen.

Words to live by

The Garden of the Gods makes a fine backdrop to any kind of bike ride.

I took five from chores yesterday to drag the Voodoo Nakisi around the west side of town.

The route I chose is one reason why a cyclo-cross bike — or better yet, a MonsterCrosser® like the Nakisi — is the ideal Bibleburg bicycle. I headed south on the creekside bike path and then west under I-25 to Bear Creek Regional Park, where I picked up a short bit of single-track before settling down to a nice, steady, pulverized-granite climb to Gold Camp Road.

At Gold Camp you can hang a left and ride all the way to Victor, if that’s your idea of a good time. But I haven’t got the legs for that, and anyway there was a stiff wind out of the south, so I took advantage of it and rolled down 26th Street to Colorado Avenue to pick up 31st Street and another steady wind-assisted climb through the Garden of the Gods.

Herself and Buddy, a.k.a. Mister Boo, video-chat via iPad with the kinfolks in Maryland.

After the Garden I hit the Sinton Trail and headed for the Goose Gossage Youth Sports Complex, where I briefly contemplated continuing on to Palmer Park for a little more single-track. But then my tummy alarm went off, and I recalled a bit of leftover steak and potatoes in the ’fridge at home, so off I went.

Herself was having a spot of fun with technology, video-chatting with her mom and a sister in Maryland via FaceTime on the iPad, occasionally taking a break to play Words With Friends with one or the other. I won’t play until someone comes up with a dirty version.

As it turns out I probably should have gone for the extra miles. Today is about 30 degrees cooler than yesterday, and windy, too, with a spot of rain from time to time. And the chores have returned, too, goddamnit (good for 476,209 points in Scrabble).

So that’ll teach me, right? Probably not.

Chirp … chirp … chirp. …

Pikes Peak as seen from Highway 24 near the Banning-Lewis Ranch.

Wow — the sound of all those virtual crickets digitally chirping is deafening.

The days have seemed about 90 minutes long lately. Bicycle Retailer and Industry News deadlines have been coming and going like cabs at McCarran International Airport. Likewise bicycle reviews for Adventure Cyclist. I just wrapped up the Cyfac Vintage; next in line is a Moots MXYBB, with a Van Nicholas Amazon Rohloff waiting in the wings.

Too, I’m been chiming in during Charles Pelkey’s live updates from the Giro, for all the good it does him. And Herself and I celebrated our 22nd anniversary on the 12th.

So, yeah. Busy busy busy, especially considering that I remain seriously underemployed — and, as a geezer who earned his chops in a dying profession, am likely to stay that way. Well, that just means more time to ride, no?

So I go out and flog myself around the countryside for a couple of hours, followed by a bite of lunch, and by the time the day’s Amgen Tour of California stage rolls around I could give a shit. I mean, I like Peter Sagan and all, but four stage wins? For reals? And today brings the time trial in Bakersfield. Pass the toothpicks, someone, I need to prop my eyelids open.

Of course, with my eyelids propped open, I can’t not look at stupid shit like this, from Rep. Mike Coffman (R-Fuckwit). Jesus H. Christ on a flatcar. Most states in the Union put their crazy people in mental institutions. Colorado sends them to the U.S. House of Representatives.

Phinney tests positive for grass

I filled in for the lawyerin’ Charles Pelkey this morning at Live Update Guy, doing my usual half-assed imitation of the master.

While I was juggling video, comments, stats and what have you I nearly missed maglia rosa Taylor Phinney riding straight off the road and into the grass at high speed. This would be hairy enough on the average pro road bike, but this being the team time trial Phinney was on his TT bike — and he managed to keep it upright and get back on the road (though he would have less luck holding onto his leader’s jersey).

So, chapeau to young Mr. Phinney. Nobody will ever know whether he could have stayed in pink had not Roberto Ferrari taken him down with that stupid sprint of his. But I think we can all agree that he certainly would have had an easier time of it today.

Chapeau, too, to Garmin-Barracuda and Ramunas Navardauskas for winning the stage and taking the overall lead.

Rise and whine

I’m not a morning person. Ask anyone.

When I was a kid my folks had to use a garden hose to flush me out of bed if I were to get my newspapers delivered before the evening news came on. In college I tried to schedule classes as late in the day as possible because the night time was the right time, don’t you know.

As a dropout I worked a janitorial gig — total night shift, 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. And a couple years after I returned to college and got that old sheepskin my newspaper career settled down into shifts of mostly 4 p.m. to 1 a.m. on one copy desk or another.

Yap!

So, yeah. I don’t like mornings unless I can face them on my own terms. This means arising slowly, gradually, easing into the day as though it were an overly hot tub.

Alas, with Herself elsewhere, as she is today, that hot tub is more like an icy pond.

Herself does not object to mornings in principle. She gets up and gets busy, wrangling dog and cats and coffee, while I enjoy an extra hour or two of watching whichever movie happens to be showing on the inside of my eyelids. My participation in the morning ritual mostly involves sitting in the reading room, staring dumbly at the rumbling furnace register, as Turkish describes figure-eights around my ankles before leaping into the sink for a drink.

When Herself is in absentia, I have to assume a slightly more active role.

At dark-thirty Buddy sounds his version of “Reveille,” a single note — “Yap!” — as the imprisoned cats drag the hallway carpet underneath the basement door. Unless I want to hear it again — and again, and again, and again — I have to drag my big ass out of bed and chuck his little ass outside.

Next I liberate the Turk’ and Miss Mia Sopaipilla, who demand a hearty breakfast after their long, dark night of unconstitutional detention without charge or even probable cause. The former gets straight to work on a bowl of kibble while the latter enjoys an aperitif of heavy whipping cream before diving into the crunchies.

A depleted Buddy rejoins the party and gets his own bowlful of breakfasty goodness, after which I stumble downstairs to see what fresh horrors the cats have left in the litter box. After a nostril-scorching few moments of turd dispersal I totter back upstairs to get the coffee started, which involves a bit of dishwashing as some eejit forgot to run the dishwasher last night.

As the java bubbles, so does Buddy. Full of chow and good humor, he locates a toy and begins chomping on it rhythmically — squeaka squeaka squeaka — as I pour a cup and try to decipher the morning news. Squeaka squeaka squeaka makes more sense than pretty much anything being attributed to Those In Authority. The temptation to add a dollop of 12-year-old Redbreast to the coffee is nearly irresistible.

Happily, things begin to settle down and the whiskey bottle remains corked. It’s time for the post-breakfast nap. Mia snoozes in a donut atop the ’fridge, while Buddy beds down in his kennel. The Turk’ is last to fade. In his capacity as field marshal of the 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment he inspects the perimeter from various windowsills before finally settling down in the Tower of Power in the living room.

Peace. At last. Time to get some work done.

Squeaka squeaka squeaka. …

What’s my line?

Man, did you folks see Roberto Ferrari take out Mark Cavendish and Taylor Phinney in today’s Giro d’Italia stage? Judas priest. Cav’ went down like someone shot him from the sidelines.

“I was doing my sprint. I didn’t see him,” Ferrari told Cyclingnews. “I don’t know what happened because it was all behind me, my foot slipped. I had to switch lines because another rider moved abruptly.”

Bullshit. He was trying to hit a gap that wasn’t there. Relegation was too gentle a punishment. Every rider on Team Sky, BMC or any other squad with a man on the deck should be permitted to queue up for a chance to kick Ferrari in the nuts.

Hot spot, cool heads at BMC

Bravo to BMC for towing maglia rosa Taylor Phinney back to the bunch in stage 2 of the Giro d’Italia after a late mechanical left him off the back and in peril of surrendering his overall lead. And Mark Cavendish — well, what can you say about him that hasn’t already been said? Dude is the Joe Frazier of sprinting.

Finally, boo to the Giro management for permitting what appeared to be a pointlessly hazardous finale to an early sprint stage, when everyone’s already as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. With dudes bunny-hopping medians and a hard right-hander 500m from the line it’s a wonder more people didn’t come off in the final kilometers. I’ll look forward to reading what the experts on the scene have to say in that regard.

I gave Charles “Live Update Guy” Pelkey a hand with today’s coverage, as did the Fat Guy. Now it’s time for me to ride my own damn’ bike. Well, Cyfac’s, anyway. More later.

Phinney’s a pinko

Congrats to Taylor Phinney for crushing the prologue at the 2012 Giro d’Italia. Dude sure picked his parents right. All I got was the bald-fat-guy gene.

Bikes, beers and bummers

The Cyfac Vintage in a Rando configuration.

Somebody has a new toy. And no, it’s not you.

Meet the Cyfac Vintage, a steel bike hand-built in France. It’s a wee bit short — a 54cm instead of the 56cm I usually ride — but it seems to roll along just fine nonetheless. It’s up for review in the July edition of Adventure Cyclist.

Speaking of which, cycling was something of an adventure around here today. The high reached at least 85 degrees, according to the weather wizards and confirmed by the Subaru thermometer, edging the record of 84 set in 2000. “Climate normal” is somewhere around 66, so this was something of a shock to the system, enough to make a guy buy a white Igloo helmet with a swamp cooler attached.

I couldn’t find one of those, so I bought two six-packs of beer instead: Odell’s 5 Barrel Pale Ale, which has become Herself’s favorite beer, and Victory’s Prima Pils, which is an excellent heat repellent when applied internally.

A man who sounds as though he could use a drink is Charles P. Pierce, who posits in a very grumpy blog post that Obama has left it too late to crank up the outrage machine. Writes Charles: “Personally, at this moment, I think he’s probably going to lose.”

If he’s right, then we should all start stockpiling strong drink while we still can. A nation that would elect Mitt Romney president is not one I can abide in sobriety.

May Day

It’s International Workers Day, kids! When you’re out there on the barricades, smashing the State, don’t forget to keep a smile on your lips and a song in your heart (preferably this one).

Meanwhile, from The Nation, here’s your Guide to May Day.