Bicycle Kick

As usual, the ride was smooth.  Shaded trails with curves and dips.  Cutting through the thick woods, full of lowlands and wetlands.  Along Wilson Creek, then up the hill, to the cotton mill.  Watching out for poisonous water moccasins.  They are all around here.  For now.  Arrived thirsty, a bike race was under way.  We wheeled through the crowd and the marked off track without stopping.  Through to the brewery.  The black, the wheat, the make-it-a-double.

The operation, ever changing, ever growing.  Organically, and from without.  The iron art foundation, layered with modern creations, music always.  The PA plugin is all.  No DJ, no spinning, no talking, some heavy metal.  The back patio, covered with tin.  Fountain.  Cool corner, outside lounge.  The wino bottle tree, the monikers.  Organized the parts yard, spruced up just enough.  Fermenting more and more, innovating processes, ambitious, real.  Games.  People of all sizes and hair color.  Young and old.  Smoke coming from smokers, the 10 dollar plate.  Some even witnessed the legendary Gareth Bale goal that won the Champions Leauge for Real Madrid.  Appropriately, on a bicycle kick.  God bless the American soccer nerds and their European punk idols.

Moderation and its challenges, a ride back.  An easy cruise initially, lingered at the old bridge, wheelies and figure eights.  Navigation of intersections and automobiles, back through the trees.  A turn off, a tip of the hat, then back south. Up Sorrell Hill to Hardin.  Parched, burnt, out of water, miles from home.  Exhausted legs, shoulders tensed, sweat still pouring, the beer of 2 hours ago drank, tasted, swallowed, absorbed, affected, and cleared.  Extreme rehydration measures performed immediately at home.  50 ounces of water, 3 cold fruit cups with heavy syrup, brisket and sausage, followed by a cold pool soak.  Followed by a hot tub soak, followed by another cold pool soak.  Followed by 10 hours of sleep.