A while back, something called “Rally Week” came to the upper Midwest. I know this because I spent three days sharing the road with thousands of motorcycles in an overstuffed car, slowly crossing large swaths of cell-phone-signal-less areas I’d never been to before in my life.
My diet consisted of a steady stream of Combos pizzeria pretzels, beef jerky, and rest-area diet sodas. I ate deep-fried macaroni and cheese from a gas station in Wyoming. I simultaneously sweated from the beating sun through the windshield, and froze from an air conditioner I couldn’t quite calibrate. I didn’t see a McDonald’s in almost 300 miles.
But after our third full day of driving, we finally stumbled upon civilization, the red bicycle of New Belgium’s Fort Collins brewery calling to us like a desert mirage.
Like a man possessed, I threw down on a pile of tacos in every available meat offering and quickly followed it up with a crisp Golden Ale. Maybe it was the tacos or maybe it was the fact that this was the first real food I’d eaten in 24 hours, but I felt like I was walking on air. And though I knew my cramped Honda was waiting for me, I decided a couple more minutes to stretch my legs and have a Mountain Time Lager wouldn’t hurt. It was Mountain Time, after all.
