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Dog Breath: A belated toast to the New Year

Published: Jan. 2, 2009
If you're going to be drinking sparkling wine, don't forget your helmet.
If you're going to be drinking sparkling wine, don't forget your helmet.
Photo: Patrick O'Grady/Mad Dog Media


For I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness.— John Steinbeck, “Travels With Charley”
 

New Year’s Day. Late arising for some reason. Check the trash for dead soldiers. Christ, it looks like the Battle of Verdun in there. At least we had enough sense to leave the sparkling wine corked.

I am in the midst of preparing a massive American breakfast for purposes of recovery when Dr. Schenkenstein phones to propose cycling somewhere, on ‘cross bikes, within the hour. We can do that. We don’t even need a reason, though breaking fast with a skillet full of eggs, peppers, potatoes and ham after an evening’s debauchery certainly provides one.

Off we roll, me feeling mildly retarded and wildly overdressed. The computer said it was only 47 degrees out here but those things lie. We’re plying our usual route, a 90-minute jaunt into the Air Force Academy and back. It’s a popular urban trail and thus fraught with platoons of nitwits enhanced by portable soundtracks, unleashed dogs and unsupervised children. Schenkenstein’s handlebar bell always gets a better workout than we do. Today, however, we encounter the occasional “Happy New Year” as a cheery counterpoint to the usual bovine gape of astonishment at the realization that yes, this planet is inhabited.

This is an easy ride, a mix of paved and unpaved trail, but the recent mild temperatures have yet to completely melt several well-shaded sheets of ice, which makes for some contemplative moments, particularly on descents and in corners.

My main bike is a mud-encrusted mess, and I’ve selected a backup I seldom ride, equipped with tires I don’t trust. With my neural network still slightly jangled from the previous night’s festivities, I decide to walk one of these treacherous pitches, the reasoning being that I’ll be traveling much more slowly and nearer the ground if I yard-sale and thus won’t inflict any collateral damage upon any iPlodders focused on sorting their playlists. Indeed, one such huffs and puffs past as I tiptoe gingerly down the glassy trail’s ragged edge like a drunken husband home late from the pub. He does not thank me.

The rest of the ride unfolds without incident, and once we are into the Academy ice gives way to damp sand punctuated with patches of caramel mud. It was much sloppier when last we rode here, dry lines few and far between. We chat aimlessly about this and that: business, kids, the helmetless woman in the short-sleeved Army jersey carving a confident line through a greasy downhill corner. Is she enjoying a long-overdue break from body armor or does she just think she’s bulletproof?

Back home I find myself with two ‘cross bikes in dire need of cleansing and lubrication. No need to rush, though, with three more in the rotation. Better to spend a few more carefree days ringing in the New Year — cycling, chatting and perhaps sipping a little wine for the stomach’s sake — before getting back to work. Go thou and do likewise.

Did he pick the right line or is he off in the weeds again? Send your O'Grady spottings to us at webletters@competitorgroup.com. And please, don't forget to include your full name, hometown and state.