Pour Some Sugar On Me.

I’m lucky to work with some talented people.  My friend and Pfizer colleague, Dan Morgan, is not just a master at selling pills; he can also rock it out on stage.   The poor suckers in my spin class know how much I love music from the 70’s and 80’s, and Dan’s band is all about The Boss, Joan (Jett), Bon Jovi (he transcends time), and more.   I’m all over it.

Saturday night found us at Wild Wing Cafe supporting this stud livin’ the rock star dream.  Bret Michaels ain’t got nothin’ on you, Dan! (Except, well, a harem full of silicon-laden, bleach-blond porn stars.) 

The prestigious Wild Wing Cafe has a distinct ambiance that can only be described as . . . very Panama City Beach-esque.  My good buddy (and Wild Wing Chick Magnet) MikeyG was also happy to show up at his favorite watering hole to join the groupies.  It wasn’t long before a very androgynous female with the most fabulous mullet I’ve ever seen gently caressed my arm and tugged me onto the dance floor with a flirty look in her eyes.  Good to know I still got it, but I sweetly declined while trying not to piss her off.  That’s one chick I DON’T wanna mess with. 

Soon, she and her new love (I’m so dispensable!) were on the dance floor, waving their lighters in the air to one of the slow songs.  I seriously didn’t know people did that anymore.   Classic.  

Here’s a shot of Kim, Jill, and me . . . the best groupies the Agent Smith Band could ever have.  If we had a little more leather, tattoos, and hair spray, we would’ve fit in better, but we did the best we could.  

When my lungs, clothes, and hair had absorbed enough second-hand smoke for the evening, I bolted. 

Sunday morning called for a cold run/ride with my favorite teammates/training partners, Dennis and Hanson.  I woke up sounding like I had severe emphysema, thanks to all the cancer sticks at Wild Wing.  Sweeeeeet.  I got up to the ‘Phretta and did a short 3mile run and then the boys showed up. We were riding our typical 50mile route through the hilly country rodes north of Atlanta.  Riding with these guys pushes me and (hopefully) makes me better, especially because their skinny asses are such great climbers.  My legs and butt were feeling like they got beat with a baseball bat, thanks to Coach Matt’s Saturday Strength-Training Special, but I just got on my bike and shut my pie hole.

It wasn’t long before they pulled away.  Um, hey guys, where ya going? I was right where I needed to be w/ my power and heart rate. What’s going on?  I tried to catch up but to no avail.  Ugh. You all know what happens next.  The pissing and moaning inside my head started.  It’s gonna be 50miles of really bad self-esteem today, I assumed.  As if riding in this cold wasn’t miserable enough.

I pulled into our favorite gas station rest stop after the first hour (famous for the soap-on-a-rope in the bathroom), hoping they weren’t waiting for me. I had resigned myself to riding alone and didn’t want to see glimpses of them in the distance (it’s just too painful!).  I rolled in, and Dennis was inside trying to defrost his toes.  Hanson had already helped himself to a Big Gulp-sized hot chocolate.  I wasted no time myself in preparing my own highly scientific, extremely sophisticated energy drink:  1/4 black coffee, 1/4 gas station french vanilla cappuccino (if you can call it cappuccino), and 1/2 hot chocolate.  DEEEEE-LISH!!!!  I sucked it down and felt a surge of energy. While we were sipping our gourmet beverages, Hanson calls me over to the “library,” asking if I wanted to check out the sweet new issue of Cycling Magazine.

Sweet. 

Dennis’ toes had resumed their normal color and we decided to get going.  As I started riding again, I realized that people spend so much money on fancy-schmancy energy drinks, when my little concoction was the best thing to EVER kick me in the ass so much.  Maybe it was the sugar.  The chocolate. The caffeine. The sophistication of the french vanilla (ha!).  Who knows… but I was in high gear and redeeming myself.  The rest of the ride ROCKED. 

If you need directions to the soap-on-a-rope gas station and more detailed instructions on my special energy drink recipe, please send a self addressed stamped envelope and a check for $19.95 + $4.95 for shipping and handling.  If Gatorade can make millions off of sugar water, why can’t I get some table scraps?