So, this long time customer walks into the bike store. He suggests that, in the spirit of the holidays, we hoist this beer he likes. But before I take my first sip, he whispers " this won't get you drunk so much as high". Ok, whatever. So I consume said spirits (on an empty stomach I might add), bid farewell to my colleagues, and start the ride home.
A mile in, I'm feeling the warm glow that good spirits typically provide. Two miles in, I have a full on Chernobyl burn, and completely miss the turn for home that I've made hundreds of times before. A few minutes later, I find myself at a busy intersection staring at a hockey rink and water tower, both of which I'm pretty sure didn't grow next to my house during the day. Apparently, I have ridden an extra mile or so up a gradual hill in heavy traffic on streets that feel like they're covered in oatmeal, just lost in what I'm not sure.
Getting my groove back on, I somehow find my way home without falling. Once home, I pass out on the first horizontal surface I could find, which fortunately was my bed. At least I had my helmet on. And my helmet mounted blinky has so traumatized the cat, he'll never come near me again.
Following a short coma, the missus and I went out for pizza and beer at Savoy's in St. Paul. After Rasputin, Newcastle tasted like warm dish water. I am really getting too old for this.
As Paula tells Andy in 40 Year Old Virgin == "I'm discreet, but I'll haunt your dreams". Rasputin was anything but but I'm pretty sure I'll have nightmares.
Thanks Tom. Lets do crack next time and get it over with.