Hot Saturday Blogging

Our Saturday morning bicycle ride gets earlier and earlier.  In the winter we started at 9:00 AM.  Today we started at 7:00 AM, but it was already 95 degrees by the time we finished, so next week we’re starting at 6:30 AM.  I suppose by the time daily highs reach 110-115 degrees, we’ll be meeting at 5:00 AM.

So, basically, it’s a siesta Saturday here in Tucson.  Our ride is done and we’re hunkered down indoors with the air conditioning set at 76.  You’d think we’d stay put until evening, but no: we’re going to a hash at 5:00 PM, right at the hottest time of day, and a bicycle hash tomorrow at 9:00 AM, which we won’t finish until noon.  Fools.  That’s what we are, fools.

One of my indoor tasks today is to prepare ribs for smoking, a process that begins at least five days before setting match to charcoal.  Secret rib lore: when I was in Missouri recently, I talked to the owner of a barbecue restaurant.  Since we’re step-cousins, he told me what I needed to know, and now I’m going to try it on my own.  In a future entry I’ll tell you how the smoked ribs came out.  If they come out half as tasty as my step-cousin’s ribs, though, don’t expect me to share the secret!

When I’m in Missouri I usually buy a Harley-Davidson T-shirt from the local dealership.  I ride a Goldwing, not a Harley, but I like wearing biker T-shirts that say “Cape Girardeau, Missouri” on the back.  The last time I went, I thought I’d get right with Honda by buying a T-shirt from their dealership.  “T-shirt?  What’s that?  Why would we want to sell T-shirts?”

You know, motorcycle riders all over the world wear Harley T-shirts from cities and countries they’ve visited (when I went to Tasmania, my first stop in Hobart was the H-D dealership, and I wore that shirt until it literally fell apart).  Triumph dealers sell them, Victory, BMW.  But Honda dealers?  They just don’t understand.

Our bird feeder’s right outside the home office window, and the digital camera’s next to the keyboard.  I’m waiting for an interesting bird to come by . . . a Gila Woodpecker, maybe, one of those orange-eyed Thrashers, even a Cardinal . . . and they do come by, but they’re camera-shy: whenever I pick up the camera, they see my movement behind the window and flit away.  I do have a shot of the goddamned ground squirrels, though:

Ground squirrels

Ground squirrels

I’ll get better at this, I hope, over time.  What did you expect, the National Geographic?

My father had a pellet gun to shoot the squirrels that came to raid his bird feeders.  I have that pellet gun now, but haven’t yet steeled myself to shoot squirrels.  Our dog Schatzi is a natural-born squirrel killer (she got one last week and snapped its neck with one shake of her head!), so I should really turn the job over to her.

Why, you ask, do I hate ground squirrels?  Because I fear they’ll burrow under the foundation of our house.  Because they’re vermin.  Because they abduct children and sell them into slavery . . . ooh, sorry, that would be the Chinese, suppliers of Wal-Mart merchandise.

But there I go again!  Think globally, act locally . . . killing ground squirrels is so much easier . . . and so is being more choosy about where I shop!

© 2007 – 2009, Paul Woodford. All rights reserved.


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