A mountain man

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 1 Comment
Leaving the light on.

I have something of a reputation as an obituary writer.

Whether it’s deserved or not, I have no idea. What I do know is that it’s a hard pull on rough ground, uphill and into the gale, especially when the dearly departed truly is — an old friend turned dust in the wind.

But I’ve never tried to write an obit while the subject was still around to read it.

That’s what my man Hal Walter is doing as we speak — writing “a life review” of his old comrade Clint Roberts, who has been ailing for some time now and has had quite enough of it. The fabled mountain athlete has one last effort in him, and it will be to hit that Door running.

Writes Hal:

Instead of an obituary, I embraced the notion of a Life Review for Clint, a short biography of sorts. He agreed to participate during his final days from his home in Oregon. It’s lengthy, and time is short, so I have decided to present it here in a series. At this writing I am unsure whether I will complete this before he is actually gone but at least he will be able to read some of it along with many people who have been inspired by him, and those who are yet to know him through this story.

Hal is posting Clint’s story at his Substack, Hardscrabble Times. Give it a read, and consider supporting his work, which includes an upcoming book collecting his play-by-play report on how he and son Harrison navigated the mysteries of Colorado Mountain College and what came after.

A bog less trotted

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 20 Comments
Sunscreen would seem to be optional this morning.

We had a storm sweep through last night, bitch-slapping leaves off the backyard maple while spraying a half-inch of water around and about.

No complaints here. San Juan County took a beating, though. People stranded on rooftops were getting choppered to shelters and here I sit in my office, warm, dry and full of breakfast, thinking I should’ve ridden yesterday because today looks like more of a running opportunity.

With another round of thunderstorms, hail, and strong winds in the forecast, riders tackling the Day of the Tread‘s Bosque Boneshaker are liable to be shivering in their skeleton costumes and getting their plastic gravel gobblers all gooey.

Caution: Dog Crossing. Cyclocross in Fort Fun, sometime in the Nineties.

There was a time when I relished that sort of outing in October, driving hundreds of miles and paying dozens of dollars to get my muddy arse handed to me, tidying up afterward pumping quarters into a car wash.

But that was when I was a man, instead of whatever it is that I am now. If I get caught out in this sort of weather I will deal with it, but I’m less inclined to seek it out just ’cause.

Instead I may trot another class of bog altogether. The revelations about PHP, A.I. skulduggery, and what some coneheads are dubbing Black October have me thinking I should relocate my old blog’s archives from their bus-station locker in the Twilight Zone to WordPress, which is — or at least should be — better equipped than Your Humble Narrator to deal with the fallout.

We’re not talking the Book of Kells, the Magna Carta, or the Code of Hammurabi here. But some of this prehistoric blather still packs a few yuks, if only for me, and I’d hate to see it sucked through the Black Mirror into the Phantom Zone because I built it using stone knives and bear skins.

And if it all goes kablooey anyway, taking my digital dogma with it? Well, shit happens, as Hammurabi has taught us. There’s always Old Reliable, the 4×8-inch Ampad Reporter’s Notebook. Scribble a “post” in ballpoint, tear out the page, and staple it to a power pole somewhere in the ’hood.

Just call me the Analog Dog: “Our Motto: ’Zine, not Herd.”

Your Friday Hall of Fame

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments
Jonathan Edwards performs a Joe Dulce classic live.

My old comrade and colleague Steve Frothingham pinged me over coffee this morning, double-checking another velo-bro’s contact info (the one and only Charles Pelkey, star of stage, screen, and TV).

Seems the U.S. Bicycling Hall of Fame is assembling a fresh conclave to vote on potential inductees and thought of tugging on the Live Update Guy’s coat.

Now, I happen to think that Charles would make an even better inductee than voter. I mean, the man has been there and done that, wearing more hats than the performers at the annual Country Music Association Awards.

Asking CP to vote on HoF candidates seems kinda like ringing up Les Claypool and asking, “Hey, you know anybody who rocks?”

But what the hell do I know? I guess some of us are just destined to roam that old back 40.

Exercising the franchise

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 28 Comments
Open for business.

Herself and I filled out our ballots yesterday, casting various rascals out and others in, then walked them up to the neighborhood Vote Center, it being a lovely day for exercising the franchise.

The joint was jumping, as it had been when I bicycled past on Saturday, the first day of early voting citywide. We arrived around 2:30 to find a parking lot full of cars and a line for the one-armed bandits of democracy.

This is one of the reasons we have our ballots mailed to us, the other being that while filling them out at the kitchen table we can have a Mac at the ready for any last-minute research into candidates, bond measures, or amendments.

Plus we can do the usual war cries without being shushed.

“Yeah! Take that! Off you go! Never happen! Eat shit! Back to the private sector where they expect results, fucko!” Etc.

Arriving with ballots completed and sealed, we can skip the queue, slip them into a box, and thank a harried poll worker for his/her service.

Then we stroll back home. It’s a 2-mile round trip, very pleasant on a sunny October afternoon. Gives the electoral process a small-town vibe.

Herself gets the MVP trophy for spotting and snagging a rogue party balloon tangled in the pathside weeds. We won’t have any bald eagles getting themselves entangled in that nonsense. Dog knows the national bird has its talons full with all these red-crested buzzards shitting in its nest.

30: Not an end, a beginning

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments
“And a good morning to you too, Acu-Rite.”

Welp, piss on the dogs and call in the fire — it’s definitely fall.

The weather has been so gentle lately that we shut off all the HVAC machinery; I can’t remember the last time the air conditioners clicked on.

And thus the furnace mos def did not click on last night, which — along with the news flash from Acu-Rite pictured above — explains why I felt a tad chilly upon awakening this morning despite being wrapped in sheet and blanket like a geezer burrito.

The uniform of the day immediately shifted from shorts and T-shirt to pants and flannel shirt over long-sleeved henley. Also, wool socks, which should go without saying. I stopped short of a watch cap and gloves.

Miss Mia knows what time it is, and what the temperature is, too.

Having mowed the lawn yesterday with plans to water today, I had to trot outside at stupid-thirty to change the sprinkler system’s start time from 5 a.m. to 10. The sun doesn’t clear the Sandias until well past 8:30 and there’s no point in creating a rink in the back yard when neither of us owns skates.

And ride time just got pushed back until noon, because it’s gonna take me some time to remember where I stashed all the cool-weather Lycra.

Tell you what, though. That first cup of coffee sure smells good when the first freeze is nipping at your nose.