Like many a passed brethren, this memory, too, has etched itself into the feeble bikalog of my matter.
One couldn’t always get the beer of one’s choice in a part like this one. That being, big whoop – i like my Life High, golden and chilly, in groups of 12. Once in a while a man should take a stand. Or in the vein of my intent – a stande. The cap was set. 6% it was in the Olde Northe State. So sad was that, so inadequate the buzz per bottle, that a group of 5, 4 maybe even 3, if counted means shit, rode north to the Seat, the confederate home of rules still dissonant, for beercraft on levels high.
we rode up, weather scoffing. it was a mere trip. jaunt. a whip of the crank. It began for the discerning with a breakfast of buckwheat whaffles from a joint outstanding. Panniers were set low — canned goods most welcome — for the shambles in which we’d sleep. Rain made way for December. It wasn’t much, but it hurt. Cold’s more a threshold than a hypothesis, and for that we had data.
upon arrival at counted host’s dockpointe, we found warmth, windows, and no need for cans. pantries aplenty, our fatback purchased astride the settlement crossed, meant shit. it was time to play pool and eat metro.
the next morning, before the thunder, before I even heard spoken the realms of Unibroue in terms other than forehead hair, baags were paacked, faatbaak was burnt, and we left as heavy as the day before, chamois exempt.
packing up in Danville, VA, beers to the hilt, foreshadowed was the selection I fell most interested in -
La Fin Du Monde.
to the hilt i packed ‘eer. fuoekkeng tons of it. and so we began a return. laden and sore – wet like no lizards – riding 50 miles loaded down with nothing but beer and campbellsfuckingsoup. gay. whooped. sun, but December, and sun, but then rain. and wind. and La Fin Du Monde.
it came back in a saack, and now lives in my haart. it is sweet like life, with the endurance of deth.
whatevs. bottom line is that i miss the tour. i’m a sucker for the big race. it’s WWII every damned summer. nice one, Cadel. Nice one, Dale. your folks have a sweet-ass cabin. we had a sweet-ass ride.by