Bombing Out

I remember back to one of the first meetings I had with Team in Training. Dwight was teaching us a lesson that diet was really important, with an anecdote on how bad he felt on a ride after he had Buffalo wings and beer the night before.

Prior to this past weekend, the biggest diet mistake I had made was getting my dinner at Johnny Rockets the night before a big ride. French fries are not carbo-loading, they are just a bad idea.

Now I, like Dwight, can attest firsthand that beer and wings do not marry well with riding. Let’s first disclose that I don’t have much of a tolerance for alcohol in general. Now add to that equation that, for a variety of reasons good and bad, my head had not hit the pillow before 2am for most of last week.

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And then came Friday – my brother Ryan and his now fiancé and fellow TNTer Eve were celebrating their impending nuptials at a watering hole near Ryan’s work called Lansdowne on the far west side (43rd and 11th Av). They had rallied their friends and several members of my family came along for the ride.

Now, let’s get right down to it: When some one offers you an “Irish Car Bomb”, you politely decline and walk away - run if necessary. In fact, anything with the word “bomb” in it is probably something to be avoided entirely. Of course, this wisdom has come at price, which I will now share with you.

My guard was down on Friday night, as it had been a long week and I felt the need to cut loose a bit. That’s when my younger and more ably liver-ed cousin Dan pitched the idea of getting the beverage with the politically incorrect name, saying these concoctions were delicious. And as I was in a raucous mood after a long week, I sidled up to the bar to go “bombing” with Dan, his brother-in-law Chris and I think his sister Kristy came along, as well.

What goes into an Irish Car Bomb? It’s similar to a “Boilermaker”: Take a pint glass, fill it with halfway with Guinness. Then, get a shot glass, fill that up half Bailey’s and half Jameson (the whiskey, being thinner, surrounds the Bailey’s in a surreal womb of booze). Lastly, drop the shot into the pint glass and the combination will begin to fizz up to the top of the glass. While it fizzes up, you quickly tip this sweet brew of inebriation back. At this point, you will want to swallow, otherwise it ends up all over your shirt.

By no means, if you were foolish enough to get a first Car Bomb, go back later for a second. That is just asking for trouble. But in case, you made the mistake of getting two Car Bombs, what you really don’t want to do is wash away the taste of Bailey’s and Jameson with more Guinness and some spicy chicken wings. That’s just plain stupid.

But what is absolutely crucial, if you had two Car Bombs, several Guinness and wings on top of that, is to NOT stay out until nearly 2am, where you may or may not have had a third Car Bomb and more Guinness. Don’t do it. Just don’t. In fact, don’t even think it. Lesson learned, let’s move on.

Saturday morning came screaming at me out of nowhere.

As the sun poked around the edges of my bedroom curtains, it set off a bass drum in my head. No amount of Gatorade, ibuprofen or other ingestible palliatives was making it go away. But out of sheer habit I slowly got my kit together to trundle over to Basking Ridge for a spinning session. Shoes, more Gatorade, a towel, and a fresh shirt to change into once all the sweating was done.

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Despite getting up at just past 7am, and working diligently to shake off Friday’s consequences, I was running 20 minutes late for a 10:30 class. I had quieted the drum’s deafening booms as best I could, but my legs were like I was walking on stilts. I was late, massively hung over and barely fit for walking, let alone enduring one of Hilarie’s endurance of pain spinning classes. So, I swung around, and headed home to nurse my self-inflicted wounds.

Sunday was another story. It was a day of redemption.

Eve was gracious enough to hold a spin class in Jersey City, my hometown, and extended her kindness further by picking me up. That meant I didn’t have to drive nearly an hour to sit on a bike that goes nowhere in a room with disco music pumping into my ears. All I had to do was get dressed.

I was joined by Dawn and the three of us rallied for 60 minutes in an all but empty New York Sports Club. Eve even threw in some XTC and Alphaville into her music mix as a throwback to my youth. I never was into either band, but it still was an exceptionally thoughtful gesture on her part.

When we were through spinning, sweat cascaded off my brow, my shirt was drenched and my legs were shaky. I felt like I had been Car Bombed all over again.