Hugo and the Tour

Hugo and the Tour 2017

The big hairy Viking cat named Huguenot Torte, or just plain Hugo, or even, in the vernacular, The Monster (because he has unequivocally been determined to be a Love Monster), has here climbed into my lap and settled down to watch the Tour de France with me and discuss the various nuances, controversies, and twists & turns that have made this year's Grand Boucle so far; the Sagan/Cavendish imbroglio (Hugo is in Sagan's camp on that one), the brute Nacer Bohnanni and his innate villainy, Aru's attack mentality, the annual disappointment of the Colombian Enigma, Nairo (rhymes with Cairo) Quintana, whether anyone can beat Marcel Kittel in a sprint, the great job the NBC broadcast team is doing (Phil, Paul, Bobke, Christian V, the Mighty Jens Voight, the hapless Steve Porino, the intrepid Steve Schlanger, and the anchor, a classic strong-jawed American sportscaster with a deep voice and an air of avuncular security whose name I cannot remember). Hugo, as it turns out, is an aficionado of the Grand Tours in general but the mighty French leg in particular. Being something of a gourmond, he's asking for escargot tonight instead of the organic duck in beef gravy or the rabbit pate that he's used to. Poor Hugo. We have no escargot.

Clawing through Ennui

Tour de France 2017

I have not been dormant. I have not wrapped myself into a fetal cocoon and drawn the shades. Nope. It is July. The Tour de France is underway, fantastic weather has returned, and Dubstoevsky has been slowly but surely clawing his way back into shape. It has taken a suitcase of commitment to do so but the effort seems to be paying off.

Ah, July. Birth month. Humidity. Sunshine. Thunderstorms. The 4th of July. Long days. Warm nights. The Tour. 

4th of July
Kimball's Ice Cream, Lancaster, MA

The New England weather has shifted over the last two months. Two thirds of the days have been sunny, pleasant, not that windy, and the other third have been overcast and some semblance of rainy. Hot and dry followed by cool and rainy. Perfect. The landscape is lush and green, the air pleasantly thick and moist. We've had an abundance of evening masterpieces when the rich descending sunlight slants across the neighborhood illuminating the giant verdant trees and the many old dignified buildings built by skilled hands.

These are introspective days. Team Shad has splintered into a thousand cosmic thoughts. Dubstoevsky is now a team unto himself. Wing Nut, Assassin for Hire, freelances out of the wilds of the greater Deerfield drainage. He's thrashing the competition in the Big Hills of Conway, Rowe, Colrain, Shelburne Falls, et fucking cetera. I Ward has disappeared in the forests of Montague. 

These developments are not unexpected. It was a rag tag shoestring trio to begin with, a trio of eclectic mirage and squawk. Like the U.S.A. itself in a way. The important thing now is to move forward.