This past week has not been a great one for reflecting and writing about the non-essential and mostly frivolous activity that is training to be a pretend bike racer. Unless you’ve been lobotomized or enjoy posting to conspiracy forums (there may be some overlap there), the events of last Friday in Newtown, Connecticut have probably made you feel the same way that I do—which is tremendously sad. Time and time again, I have written about riding bikes, bodily functions and obsessions concerning things two-wheeled. These are (sadly) things that I find interesting, and for better or worse, that is what readers expect to read about when they come to my little specialty shop in the strip mall of the internet. This is my chosen genre, and I realize that. I am unworthy and unqualified to properly express the sadness that must be bearing down upon the families of the children and women killed at Sandy Hook Elementary School.

My daughters are both the same age as the students at Sandy Hook Elementary School, and imagining living in a world that no longer had them in it nearly brings me to my knees with sorrow. I am fortunate though, as that horrible scenario is not a reality.

But.

Right now in Connecticut, mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers are making their way through what for most of us would be a living agony.

Normally, riding my bike is how I relax. It’s how I extinguish feelings of angst, malaise or anxiety. The effort of riding my bike conjures a chemical reaction inside of me that manages to makes everything seem ok. Riding is the smuggled file I use to cut through the bars of my self-made cage of worries. The nearly meaningless action of pushing on pedals somehow works magic on my psyche like a birthday party magician’s rabbit in a hat, but for the past week the sadness hasn’t been yanked out of my top hat.

And I’m not sure when it will leave.

Here’s a ride of mine on Strava that didn’t really help my mood.

Roman’s Beer Corner

It’s times like these that you have to thank the Lord above for beer, and this week’s selection from Roman is Founders Backwood Bastard Ale. This is an ale with an elevated get-poop-faced-o-crit level of 10.2%, and it’s aged in oak bourbon barrels, which coincidentally, my grandfather Cletus (yes, seriously) also used for aging his homemade wine. My grandfather’s wine had a certain bouquet to it, it was full bodied, oak-y and had hints of unintentional blindness after three glasses. I’m expecting for the same from Founders—without all the blindness.

Roman, because he is sent from heaven, has decided to occasionally drop off the beers that he recommends. He suggested that I use a snifter glass to drink this week’s selection, as it’s not meant to be consumed ice cold, and the heat of my hand will warm the ale. This glass pairing process is new to me and my sight-diminishing beverage bouquet (I’ve always thought that beer comes naturally in its own glass, I think they call them "bottles"), but I shall give it a try.

Roman also says that this is a sipping beer, so I will be sipping and considering as I go along. He also tells me that the flavors in the beer will change as I drink it, making the last sip taste differently than the first. This makes perfect sense, and I will boldly predict now that my last sip will taste much drunker than my first.

The tasting

Upon downing a mouthful of Bastard, I can definitely taste hints of the oakiness, which gives it a clear Cletus overtone. The ale finishes with a slight whiskey hinted fumy-ness—like huffing a gas tank full of barley.  I’m left with a mouthful of vaporous heavy caramel goodness from my hand oven that fumigates my head with delight.