Today's ride

Mid-March in Maine

This is the bike I rode today. Although I have gotten both the Trek roadie and the Diamondback commuter fit and ready, I was seduced by the warm weather and the fact that the Enfield started on the first kick. After eight months of disuse, the critter fired up with a slight coughing fit and then settled into its usual rumbling idle. So I donned the necessary gear and meandered the back roads up to Nick and Susan's to retrieve the shaving kit I'd forgotten after spending last night with them. Once back in Westbrook I started dinner and began reading the inordinate pile of (crap) reading material and advertising that has arrived to herald my becoming eligible for Medicare. After one glass of excrable wine (nowhere near as good as Fidencio which costs a third) and seventeen pages I decided to do something meaningful. I washed dishes and came to play on thee 'puter. Am missing the cycling in Spain, but I hear that the weather over there has been quite wet. Glad I missed it. We're setting record highs here, with summer-like weather on the first day of Spring. Forecast is for 27C or 80F inland, tomorrow. Think I'll go take an Aleve for a splitting headache. Don't know whether it was caused by reading government brochures, money-grubbing adverts or the vinaigrette mis-labled as Merlot. Buenas Noches!

Early March in Alicante

Second of March and we've had some t-shirt days mixed in with sweater days. Got my first sunburn on a ride with the Amigos, and last Friday's trip to Guardamar Light. It is a small lighthouse on the end of a breakwater which protects the mouth of the Segura River. The breakwater is home to a tribe of fearless feral felines who relentlessly stalk a ham sandwich but merely turn their noses up at olives. Must not be martini drinkers. I like to set out on the hard-packed gravel trail around 11 and cruise along the south bank of the Segura, through citrus orchards, artichoke fields and a couple of towns; listening to my iPod and setting my cadence to the various tunes. Anyone trying to keep pace behind me would be befuddled as my tempo changes from Brubeck's "Take Five" to Morrison's "L.A. Woman" and then to Piaf's "Je Ne Regrette Rien".

If you look closely at the foot of the lighthouse, you will see the miscreant that made a pass at my sandwich while I was turned in the other direction to take the next shot. It shows the fishermen who patiently fling dough-balls at tiny fish, without much success, I might add. But then, fishing is not really about catching, is it? Anyway, I watched the closest fellow concoct his bait. He took a couple of handfuls of flour, mixed in some water and added what looked like decomposing shrimp before kneading it into a grapefruit-sized ball. He then tore off a chunk and placed it into a plastic jar and stirred in some more water (I presume) until it reached the consistency of chewing gum on a sidewalk in August. Then, winding some on a stick, he transferred a gob onto two small hooks, about the size of that which one would use for sunfish, on a drop-rig and cast out into the current. While I ate lunch and fended off marauding cats, he rebaited four times without threatening a fish. Beats mowing the lawn.