Bikes. Parts. Chaos.
I woke up bright and early Saturday morning and went for a ride. It was beautiful out and I haven't been on dirt enough this year. I had one of those rides where you feel good throughout, even take a couple extra laps just because you can, and you think 'i'm really ON today!' and you don't even run into a tree. Made me feel all part of the big Whatever, made me feel strong and alive. That night, still feeling good, my lady and I went out to see a show. We were to meet up at a bar with our good friend Tammy, who this night was on a first date with Exhibit A. We were to be a buffer of sorts. We started out at home with a couple beers and some tequila, then jumped on our bikes and headed downtown, where I began to drink whiskey sours. The first one went down great, so I had another. Then water. Then I bought a round of Jameson for everyone at the table. Then I drank some more water, thinking I'd outsmarted the alcohol. "This'll be a breeze," I thought, "I'll get to bed at a reasonable hour and get up tomorrow and get a bunch of work done. I'm drinking plenty of water! I'm a genius." And that is when I found that the waitress had actually brought an extra whiskey sour, so I drank it. It just kept tasting good. No problem. And then we went to the show, where there was more whiskey. Fast forward to the next morning. For a long time I just laid there with a dry mouth and sore everything, with my sunken, light-sensitive eyes forced open in a baby-step attempt to depart the environs of my comfy bed. I have learned over time that this old feeling... and it is old, as I seldom over-drink anymore, a fact which makes being hungover harder since I'm no longer in practice... that this old feeling demands activity to abate the suffering. Luckily my strategy worked, at least to a degree. I drank plenty of water all night, including 2 big glasses before going to bed, and I kept thinking how much worse I'd feel if I hadn't had all that water. Still, the roar of unmoving air in my ears and the blinding light surging through closed curtains acted as a big slice of humble pie. I crashed my way to the bathroom and shaved my tongue. I stumbled around for a while. Did the dishes. Swept. Tried to think of more things to do. There were things to do, certainly. There are always things to be done. Only I couldn't think of any of them because my brain had called in sick. In the end, two hours later, I decided to go for a ride. Riding, I have found, is the perfect (if counterintuitive) answer to hangovers, colds, and the blues. Burns through toxins. Flushes your deal. Moisturizes your situation and perserves your sexy (I heard P. Diddy say that on an infomercial and it sounds cool, although I have no idea what it means). And you know what? It did make me feel better. By the time I got home, I felt relatively normal. Still didn't get a ton of stuff done, but didn't feel like a zombie all day either. Today's lesson: Feeling good or feeling bad, a bicycle will improve your day. -----