I spent the morning after my dilemma doing nothing in particular. I spent most of the afternoon doing the same thing as well, which worked terribly because it made me very late indeed.
It must have been around half past two I made any real effort to get ready. I moseyed into the shower, washed my hair, and was having a grand old time under the cool, but not too-cool water. I got out, towelled off and ambled to my wardrobe to find some clothes.
I had another lesser dilemma as I tried to work out what to wear. The plan was to ride from Megan’s place in Caboolture to my sister’s place in Narangba, so I didn’t know whether to take a change of clothes or just stink the place up when I got there. After a little casual deliberation I decided on a compromise and put on an undershirt reasoning that it would soak up any excess body grot and I could take it off later.
It was really hot, and it was in retrospect quite expected that it made my trip a whole heap more uncomfortable than it should have been, but I would probably do it again for afternoon cycling because when the sun went down behind the trees it was all right. I don’t know, my regular clothes were fine when I finally got to my sister’s place after a bit of a freshen up I was fine.
It was good to get out on the bike, since I think the last time I went anywhere serious on it was on the long trip to Bribie that I was meaning to write about but never did.
The party itself was all right too I guess.
When I got there my sister told me straight away that I could stay the night if I wanted, because everyone else was apparently pissing off to the valley.
“That’s nice, thanks,” I replied not intending to stay at all.
I dropped my backpack down on the washing machine, and on hearing it make a thoroughly satisfying thud I discovered a conveniently stashed half bottle of leftover Cougar. It was as if a big beardly man who lives in the sky poked his divine finger down through the cloudless night and said “Ashley, I decree that you will drink this drink, and the night stay with your sister!”
So I drank the drink. Who am I to argue with metaphors?
It was pretty good for the first two drinks, but as I got happier, everyone else seemed to get grumpier. It turned into a bit of a grumpyfest, and as the night progressed it became evident… Excuse me a minute.
Dog, what the hell did you just do? I know you did something, where did that un-metaphorical-sky-manly smell come from? Don’t try and cute me, get out, that’s disgusting.
Sorry about that, the dog has a fantastic habit of slinking up beside you and… I don’t know what he does, but he has this inane ability to produce the most fantastical stenches without even trying. It’s disgusting.
Anyhow, it became clearer that the offer of space on a couch was probably going to be shared with thirty or so puking twenty-one year olds, and as much as that’s not my scene I made alternative plans.
I stayed for four hours, and after that Dad dropped me and the bike at the railway station and I caught the train to Sunshine.
By that time I was probably still pretty drunk but feeling the effects of reality starting to claw back at the edges of my consciousness, so I took a risk and rode the rest of the way home. This worked out pretty well for the most part, and was really what I needed to end the night on a high note.
Everything was fine until I got to the painful little intersection at the railway station at old Banyo town. There was the unfortunate combination of someone coming in the opposite direction who apparently didn’t know the road rules, me tired and doing about twenty kilometres per hour, and a police car coming around the corner extreeeeeemely slowly to let me get out in front of him.
The crux was that neither I nor the person opposite were sure of what we were doing. Despite having right of way, the person opposite had stopped at the intersection, right as I was pulling up to it. Sort of as an instinct, I indicated, pulled out in front of the police car (which they were waiting for me to do,) and turned in front of the other guy with right of way.
I have absolutely no idea what was going on there, but I powered off the other side of the level crossing and the police car wasn’t behind me, so they obviously had better things to chase up than some drunk guy on a bicycle.
When I got up the driveway, I flicked my lights off in a paranoid motion just in case they circled around to check up on me. Another police car passed in the opposite direction and I freaked right out, racing up the stairs to peer out through the curtains to see what was happening.
Nothing was happening.
I don’t actually know what the law is regarding alcohol and bicycles. I have it in my head that it may be zero tolerance, but either way it was a reasonably stupid idea to ride home, especially with the quarter bottle of bourbon in my backpack through a neighbourhood that has regular police patrols on the weekends.
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