Demise of the Good Doctor...

..or Elegy for a Suburban Saloon.

Last night, five of us decided to host a redux of the old TNS (Tuesday Night Swill) ride to gather at Dr. Dremo's Taphouse in Arlington. We wanted to show our repects for this iconic and soon-to-be departed neighborhood pub—a victim of rampant (and too late?) housing market forces and xenophobic county officials—and also, proud sots that we are, to quaff some good ale.

(Okay, this wouldn't be a literary lamentation without a little sardonic editorializing and a bit of maudlin reminiscing before we move on to the tale. Hey, I have to space out the pix somehow, and the evening, while entertaining, wasn't all that unusual or action-packed. So just bear with me.)

In recent years, the former Bardo Rodeo (and, before that, Oldsmobile dealership) had fought a losing battle¹ with the county and commercial developers to simply remain what it had always been: a dark, noisy, smokey refuge against the increasingly commonplace yuppie bars that now litter the boulevards passing through Court House and Clarendon like the scattered baubles of a broken charm-bracelet.

Hunkered down against the tightening stricture of towering office buildings and predatorial condominiums, Dremo's is a down-to-earth, well, dive, where you can find on tap an array of fine drafts as eclectic as the surrounding decorum rubbing elbows with such crass classics as PBR, Yuengling, and Rolling Rock.

It's also a place where a thumpin' juke box blissfully precludes the irritating cellphone conversations (can ya hear me now...yeah?...good—fuck you!) so prevalent at nearby establishments, where the odor of stale beer and nicotine is as enduring as the indecorous graffiti splashed across the walls, or the virulent tats covering employee and patron alike, where a grimey window just past the pool tables offers up an epiphanic view of the District's priapic pride and joy and other architectural goodies, where the Shenandoah Brewing Company showcases some odd (Chocolate Donut Stout) and not so odd (Dremo's James Brown Ale) offerings, where, outside, a wooden totemic golem clasping mug to mouth squats atop a keg to welcome bargoers with a prescient leer, where, every Tuesday night, almost without fail, you can stumble downstairs, beer in hand, to take in a bizarre classic chosen by the Washington Psychotronic Film Society, where, in summer months past, you could wander outside to the erstwhile mechanics bay to stand on dimunitive dunes of trucked-in sand at the patio bar, and where the staff let you park your bike inside with nary a question or questionable look. Gone, all of it, with no hope of reprieve, come 2 a.m on January 27th. Alas...

I biked from work in SW DC to Falls Church, Virginia, to meet up with Gary and Jason at 5:00. I got there a few minutes late owing to a headwind and a capricious decision to take to the streets over the W&OD Trail. The boys were already heading my way, and in seconds we were all rolling eastward along the trail at speed, just like in the good old days. The sun was drifting westerly as we crossed the invisible border from Falls Church into Arlington, picking our way between speeding cars along Route 29 as we did so.

After a few minor run-ins with rush-hour traffic—including one with a Metrobus whose indelicate lane-wavering bordered on the rapacious—we found ourselves pushing the bikes through the industrial doors of Dremo's to line them up against the wall on the left. I threw a lock on mine, mostly because I'd packed the damn thing (but also because you can never be too careful with high-end bike bling), and bundled Gary's up with it, just to make things difficult. On an otherwise empty bulletin board on the wall behind the bikes was a forlorn note declaring January 26th (for simplicity's sake) as the official D-Day.

We grabbed a table in the center of the oddly empty barroom and, after inquiring about the reputed tap presence of Bear Republic's rare heavy-hitter, Racer X (alas, 'twas only a cruel rumor), opted for a pitcher of Lagunitas IPA. It wasn't long before Butch rolled in, having just taken care of some domestic duties, and ordered up a pitcher of Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA. Thus began the perennial discussion about the apparent fragility of this popular ale,² a condition confirmed by the first sip. I stuck to the Lagunitas (spot on!) for the rest of the night, as did Gary, with only a brief dalliance with some Rogue Dead Guy Ale near the end. At some point, Zack joined us, rolling in late after overshooting the turn off Wilson to get to the place. He's a city boy and finds the suburbs a bit confusing. Understandable, since, by his own admission, he spends little time in them (also understandable).³

Beer and bullshit flowed. Four of us ordered burgers that were quite tasty, as were the seasoned fries accompanying them—the lone holdout, Gary, had a chicken quesadilla. In a place as dark and, uh, old-skool authentic as that of the good doctor, this grub was a nice, though not wholly unexpected, treat. The food at Dremo's is your standard pub fare, to be sure, but it's done right and it's satisfying and unpretentous (like the taphouse itself) and you know what you're getting.

Pitcher begat pitcher, and the place filled up with loyal patrons come to pay last respects to the dying, along with a thick cloud of cigarette smoke. Just before 10:00, we called for the tab, settled up, then saddled up. Outside in the crisp air, it was good to see the railing loaded with bikes, including a few fixies. Butch and Zack took off heading east, to Alexandria and DC, respectively. Gary, Jason, and I set out the wrong way up Clarendon Boulevard (the usual route) before cutting over to Wilson after passing the Taco Bell (another victim, though much less pitiable, of the impending retail and residential search and destroy, an establishment whose glass doors I once, on a past TNS ride, had the Dutch courage to urinate on in an admittedly puerile attempt to extend a metaphor).

The ride back was largely uneventful, Jason and I leaving Gary behind several times at intersections before we all regrouped at the Custis Trail spur near Fairfax Drive. From there, I again took the lead, laying down a good pace and seeing Jason's headlight dwindle away to nothing behind me once we hit the W&OD junction. I was running on alcohol, and it felt good to throw it down in the coolness of the night. At the top of a hill near the Falls Church border, I stopped to dig out the camera and take some final pix as the boys approached. The results were less than stellar (no surprise there), though one or two turned out well enough. I bid the boys farewell, and took off back into Arlington, leaving them to trundle along on their own to their cars a couple miles away in Falls Church.

It was another good night spent in good company, the drunken bantering having somehow displaced the gloomy awareness that very soon one of the last real bars in the suburbia surrounding DC will close its doors forever, as Arlington cannibalizes its past to feed a questionable future.

Go show the good doctor some love one last time and say goodbye in proper fashion.

1. In an all too common anti-fairytale ending, the landlord went for the bucks. It was never Dremo's fight to begin with, as I understand it.

2. Seems any time I order a DFH 60 Minute IPA anywhere lately, the stuff tastes skunky. Don't know where the problem lies, but since it's pretty consistent from pub to pub--including the DFH franchises--I'm looking at DFH and an underperforming quality control department. It's getting to the point where I won't even bother ordering it anymore.

3. For me, the fascination of the city—where even the scattered pockets of silence that form around the ceaseless grind and groan of unstaunched streams of traffic are gravid with anticipation and possibility—lies in its powerful and wholly obligatory social component. To live in the city is to be a social animal; this civil mandate is not a function of demographic concentrations or class; it thrives simultaneously among and between all realms, and is the offspring of necessity.

Photo credit for last pic above: Jason Stoner. More pix can be found here.

They Live By Night...

For this week's TNS, we took advantage of the dry streak and hit the dirt, amassing at Wakefield for a quick night ride. DT, JonnyB, Jason, RickyD, and I met up in the far parking lot and headed out on the usual route. Technically, this was my first dirt ride of the year; the only other time I broke out the Inbred recently was for a little snow ride in February, and I was jonesing to get back to it.

We took off with Ricky "I-smoked-Ned-Overend-on-a-recent-group-ride" D leading the way. About halfway through the ride, Jason's lunch decided it didn't want to take an eventual dirt ride of its own and tried to bail out the way it went in. I think he tends to amp it up a bit more when Rick shows up; some kind of competition thing going on there (or is it compensation?). He left the rest of us to finish our ride while he found a secluded spot in the woods to do a little gastrointestinal spray-painting before cutting back to the cars. Probably more than you need to know, but hey, the ride was pretty average and I have to fill some space around the pix (note to self: turn on the f&$%ing red-eye reduction already!).

Trail conditions were surprisingly good. I've deliberately avoided the local trails so far because of the amount of rain we've had this winter and also because we really haven't had any extended below-freezing temps during the day, which means the ground has remained moist for the most part. Hasn't stopped a lot of ignorant individuals from riding anyway—including some who should know better (you know who you are)—as evidenced by the ubiquitous frozen ruts I saw on a couple of night rides near the end of last year.

Ended up with about 8 miles or so overall. The only other interesting thing is that DT rode my fixed Karate Monkey. Pretty much his first taste of what 29 is all about. I think he might be a future candidate for that burgeoning genre, since he rode well and tackled most of the obstacles he usually does, despite the Monkey's low BB and corresponding penchant for pedal banging, and the fact that the frame was a little too big for him.

Afterwards, JonnyB, DT, and I had a beer in the lot and talked with Ricky and Chris before heading over to Bazanno's for some grub. Next time I'll have to get some action shots, though if you know Wakefield, you know that "action" isn't exactly the operative word. 70 degrees tomorrow, might have to hit Colt's Neck while the dry run lasts.

Flat Tuesday (Part 2 of 2)...

So, the nine of us together again, we headed through Bethesda on the CCT. We passed the Bethesda Row Cinema and ducked into the Wisconsin Avenue Tunnel, a long, starkly lit and industrial-looking concrete passageway that, curiously, is fenced along both sides like some subterranean alley to the gallows. A little past midpoint in the tunnel, twin gates loom large on either side, suggesting that travelers may find themselves sequestered on the other side of Wisconsin Avenue upon returning too late.

We exited the tunnel on the far side and the sound of gravel bits crunching beneath our wheels and the alley-oop of the occasional pothole signaled the beginning of the Georgetown Branch Trail, a subsection of the greater CCT. The Georgetown Branch Trail is a makeshift route that heads westward to Silver Spring along a rutted path of crushed stone whose future remains in question, owing to the opposing interests of the Maryland Mass Transit Administration. The MMTA has plans to run the Purple Line through this area, and the fight is on to preserve and complete this section of the CCT.

We pedaled on, negotiating the loose, uneven terrain and dodging scattered puddles on skinny tires. We stayed close together, knowing that only two or three of us had an idea of exactly where we would break away from the trail to head back on the second half of the loop. That break came just before the Rock Creek Trestle—an old B&O Railroad project that passes over the Rock Creek stream—when we took a right on Jones Mill Road.

We started spreading out now along the road, a natural process born of equal parts riding ability, lighting system efficacy, and knowledge of the route. Eventually, we came to Beach Drive, where we paused briefly to make sure everyone had caught up.

Once on Beach Drive, we hugged the edge of the road, winding our way one by one along the sinuous ribbon of asphalt. Ahead, only the vast, enveloping blackness that descended like waves between the temporary pools of artificial daylight dug out in the night by approaching headlights, and the forelorn flasher of a faraway rider, pulsing like a feeble heart in the body of darkness. Behind was a sort of mirror scene, as the brilliant pinhole and spectral cone of a slower rider's bike light appeared suddenly from around a sharp turn, and the taillights of passing cars flared briefly, then faded away in the distance like dying embers.

The tranquility of this section didn't last. Rick suffered the first flat of the night, again living up to his nom de jour, a fact I didn't let slip by him. After about fifteen minutes during which he and Markie, kneeling side by side in the grass like genuflecting choirboys, combined talents to make things right, we were back on the road again.

Not long after this episode, I got my payback for heckling Rick. In spades. We had just found our way onto a narrow path that maybe only Markie and Butch can identify. At a small footbridge, I heard and felt that dull thunk! that signifies failure of the tire to protect the rim, as the elevated threshold of the bridge bit deep into my front wheel. Twenty feet later I was riding rim.

We all stopped while I changed the flat. An oversized tube combined with a skinny, new, wire-bead road tire and a cross rim meant that this was going to be far from quick and pleasant. The tube was so big, it didn't seem like it would need air once I stuffed it into place. With a little help, a dash of payback sarcasm, a lot of strength, and just the right amount of luck, I was back rolling within about twenty minutes or so.

The luck piece didn't last long, as almost immediately a squirrely feeling from the rear tire let me know that it, too, had suffered a snakebite at the bridge. I let Gary know I had another flat and that I would try riding it out, since the tire was compressing nicely to insulate the rim from the road. Gary caught up with the others, who had stopped to wait, and it was quickly decided that we were too far off to ride out the flat.

Near an overpass just off the path we had taken, I sat down in the dropping temps to go to work, hoping I could patch what would turn out to be a double pinch flat. Markie headed off home to grab an extra tube, taking with him one of my tire levers. I finally busted the tire off the rim with the help of a lever Gary loaned me, at about the time that DT found an extra tube he had. The tube was the right size, but turned out to have a Schraeder valve. Damn, somewhere there was a God of Petty Tricks who was laughing Its disembodied ass off at this hapless turn of events, and plotting the next fiasco from the safety of a faraway cumulous cloud.

Butch gave me a hand with the patch, which didn't take, likely due to an insufficient roughing up of the rubber. In the meantime, DT kept circling on his bike, every so often saying, "the writing is on the wall" like some two-wheeled prophet of doom. I finally looked up to see that the writing was indeed on the wall, DT having quoted verbatim a sophmoric burst of self-referential graffiti scrawled on the overpass abutment. I ended up with a tube from someone else (Markie?). All told, it was about a half hour before we were rolling again.

After what seemed like an interminable period, we made our way back into Georgetown. I shouted out to a random fixie rider who was riding into M Street from Wisconsin Avenue, inviting him to join us. He did, a young guy riding a Jamis. We locked up the bikes outside Pizzeria Paradiso and headed in and down the stairs to the now familiar milieu of Birreria Paradiso. I think it was around 9:30; we were late and had some catching up to do.

We crowded the bar, taking every available seat, now ten strong with the arrival of the newcomer, who grabbed the last seat by me. (I'll be the first to admit that it's a little unsettling, if not altogether inauspicious, that I can't remember this kid's name, but I can remember the name of the beer he ordered: a Jever Pilsner.)

Beer flowed; in particular, a new addition to the already outstanding tap lineup: Bear Republic's Red Rocket Ale. Nice! Also new on tap was Clipper City's Loose Cannon, which laid claim to the beer engine and found its way into 10 or 20 oz glasses, your choice.

Pizza came and went almost as fast as the beer. I opted for my usual standby, the Atomica, a savory blend of mozzarella, salami, tomatoes, black olives, and hot pepper flakes that fairly overflowed the whole wheat flour basin of crust (if you're a local and haven't found your way to the Birreria, you really owe it to yourself to see what it's all about—just remember to leave a few seats open at the bar on Tuesday nights). Eventually, several riders peeled themselves away from the bar and paid their tabs, leaving DT, Gary, and me to represent via another pint. We drank the last one and headed up and out, wondering whether Gary's and DT's bikes would still be there, since they had locked up with some of the guys who had left. The bikes were there; the hooligans who left early had seen fit to stuff them up in the tree for safekeeping next to my bike, which had been hanging alone.

We saddled up and took off into the chilly air of the approaching morning. We crossed Key Bridge and veered right and up the endless climb on Key Boulevard that we lovingly refer to as "DT's Hill." The 48T felt sluggish as I ramped up to drop the hammer; not at all like I remembered it from weeks past. Of course, it had to be the ring, and not the bevy of strong beers I'd just finished throwing to the bottom.

We rode through Clarendon, where no vestige remained of a Mardis Gras parade that had traced our course earlier in the evening, and got back on the Custis Trail at Fairfax Drive. Fifteen minutes later we were back at the cars without incident, completing a nice loop that covered almost 40 miles of mixed terrain. The next day found me back at Performance, swapping out the undersized Vittorias for some beefier Panaracer Urban Max tires that came heavily recommended from Butch and Jason. We'll see how they hold up and whether I've paid my Karma debt. At least for a while.

Flat Tuesday (Part 1 of 2)...

Nine riders hit the road for the latest TNS. Or should I say FTNS, since this one fell on Fat Tuesday, a fact that meant it would require an innovative route to go along with the new surge in numbers. Nine riders, nine alcoholic acolytes, of which seven were straddling fixies. It was going to be a special night, to be sure. Little did we suspect that the Moirae, those toothless old bags of Greek mythology, were already conspiring to stick their wart-ridden noses into our plans to make sure the evening would not pass uneventfully. They had another F-word in mind. Maybe two. That's what you get when you combine immortality with eternal ennui, the Devil's proclivity for finding work for idle hands being what it is and all.

The event planning started early in the day with a volley of emails that fluttered back and forth across the nowhere space of the virtual void between aspiring TNSer RickyD, the regular TNS group, and a few newcomers. Rick had a rather nebulous plan in mind that involved hitting some streets in the district to celebrate Mardi Gras on two wheels. After some additional suggestions, we decided to go with Butch's idea of meeting up with Aussie-wannabe Markie Mark in Georgetown, taking the CCT into Bethesda, then looping around via James Mill Road to the Rock Creek Parkway. From there we would head back into Georgetown to grub and sup at Pizzeria Paradiso, a local joint that has quickly become a favorite TNS stop for reasons I noted in an earlier post. In an email reply, I tallied the number of riders by name, and happened to list RickyD as "Delay-us," a simple play on his last name that would turn out to be prophetic.

In addition to me, Jason, and DT, Gary, JohnnyB, Butch, and newcomer Chris showed up at the usual meeting place in Falls Church. Miraculously, DT had found time to get his fixie up to rideable status, moving the front ring inboard a bit for a welcome and long overdue chainline improvement, and even going so far as to install a fork-mounted bottle opener/flasher bracket. Still no bar tape, though. I showed off the new super-spindly Vittoria 700x25 tires that were all but dwarfed by the cross rims that swallowed their wire beads, my brilliant idea to lose some rolling resistance in exchange for a modicum of largely psychological speed.

Rick finally pulled up late, living up to the moniker I'd given him earlier. We rode circles in the gloaming while he got his stuff together. Then we were off en masse, about 20 minutes behind schedule. Almost immediately, a damp coolness in the air sliced through our clothing, belying the mid-40s temps promised by the digital thermometer in my truck. But we were rolling on the flats right now, and the climbs up ahead through Arlington would provide plenty of heat soon enough.

We followed the usual line along the W&OD and Custis Trails, eventually winding our way without mishap to the Francis Scott Key Bridge (aka the "Car Strangled Spanner"), with me in the lead, hammering on a 48x16 set-up, having swapped out my 44 front ring the previous night with the idea that the skinny tires would compensate. They did.

We crossed Key Bridge into Georgetown, hitting M Street without pause. At one point, I thought I was going to get nailed by a car that was cutting across M Street with the light. I called out "watch left" and arced defensively to the right, directly into the path of Chris, who was right behind me and probably looking left as instructed. His bike t-boned mine, striking my right thigh and rattling both of us for a second, but we stayed upright and continued on. The car, of course, made a blinkerless right turn.

At Wisconsin and M, we made a right in a protracted u-turn of sorts that took us down under the ill-conceived Whitehurst Freeway, through a ribcage of rusting bridge struts that straddles the nether regions of K Street, and to the mouth of the Capitol Crescent Trail (CCT). Here we met up with Markie Mark (aka Scotch), who was milling about idly beneath the crumbling corpse of the old Aqueduct Bridge abutment, no doubt wondering where the hell we were. Scotch showed off his latest eBay acquisition, an orange, drool-inspiring IF. Guess the ol' CrossCheck wasn't blue enough for his noble blood, the lucky bastard.

After some meaningless chatter, we headed off down the unlit CCT, riding parallel to the C&O Canal Trail for a while before crossing over it via a trestle bridge.

At some point, five of us hammerheads sprinted off, leaving the other four behind as we mindlessly competed with each other for the lead in a race that had no prize, no crowd, no purpose. I hung on as best I could, taking the lead once or twice for a minute or two when the others either slacked momentarily or simply conceded to a rare twinge of pathos.

We made it to where the CCT proper terminates in Bethesda and took a moment to wait for the others, who rolled in shortly thereafter. We posed for pix and discussed our options for continuing the ride, ultimately deciding to stick to our original plan, which would add some additional miles to what would otherwise have been an easy out and back on the CCT.

[End Part 1]

Pedaling to Paradise: The Search for a Clean, Well-lighted Place...

Last Tuesday evening marked a first for the Tuesday Night Swill (TNS) rides. Instead of the usual trio/duo setting out to get in some miles on the road, interrupted only by the chance to eat and throw down a few pints, this time we ended up with seven alcohooligans.

Seven.

For us, that's a huge number. Hell, that's almost of WUSS Tour de Swill proportions.

The evening started out with DT, Jason, and I meeting sometime-TNSer Gary at the usual time and spot in Falls Church. The plan was to catch up with Butch and Steve in Georgetown at a quasi-yuppie joint called Pizzeria Paradiso.

Well, it was a quasi-yuppie joint until recently, when PP's beer manager, Thor Cheston, got the idea that offering some quality craft brews might be a good thing, not only for business and his own peace of mind, but for the discriminating palates of the many thirsty souls wandering the streets of the DC Metro area like zombies with scabrous livers, a taste for the flesh of living yeast, and fat wallets to back it all up.

So Thor decided to convert the basement dining area to something he calls Birreria Paradiso, a small venue that takes its cue from the usual rathskeller beer bars, with one notable exception. Birreria Paradiso boasts an impressive lineup. Impressive, as in quality and diversity: old homegrown standbys rub shoulders with some of the best Europe has to offer, a real eclectic mix that is, regrettably, all too uncommon in this area. Have a look at what was flowing from the taps on Tuesday and see if you don't agree:

• Schneider Aventinus Wheat Doppelbock
  
• Saison Dupont
  
• Fullers ESB
  
• Unibroue Maudite
  
• Rogue Shakespeare Stout
  
• Rogue Dead Guy Ale (upstairs)
  
• Chimay (upstairs)
  
• Kasteel Tripel
  
• Bluebird Bitter
  
• Jever Pilsner (upstairs)
  
• Duchesse de Bourgogne
  
• Hoffbrau Weizen
  
• Ommegang Hennepin
  
• Dogfish Head 60 (upstairs) and 90 Minute IPA
  
• Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout
  
• Clipper City Small Craft Warning Uber Pils (handpull)
  

Add to the above a cache of 80 bottled beers—including the reputed "best beer in the world," Trappiste Rochefort 10 (8 too!)—and you get my point.

What's more, for you purists out there, the beers are served in style-appropriate glasses. That means tulip-shaped goblets for strong and imperial ales, traditional (read: sub-16 oz.) pint glasses for the lower-octane ales, pilsner glasses for, um, pilsners, English "true pint" pub glasses for stouts, and some funky phallic monster of a glass (German wheat beer glass?) that was reserved for the Schneider Aventinus offering listed above. A nice touch of authenticity that stops well short of pretentiousness. Okay, it still has the feel of a yuppie joint about it (c'mon, it's Georgetown), but make no mistake: this place is serious about showcasing some great beers, and the staff is cool and informed.

But back to the ride. DT showed up with an old lugged Fuji in place of his Pista, something he'd cobbled together last minute that didn't include bar tape or a front brake. No worries about the latter, since up until a short time ago, a front brake on a fixie was a luxury item for him.

We headed off into the frigid evening (the coldest night of the year to date), hitting the W&OD and riding into Arlington. About halfway there, DT suffered a broken—make that horribly mangled—chain. Noticing that he and Gary were nowhere to be seen behind us, Jason and I circled back and found the two inspecting the damage. To pass the time while DT rejoined the chain, I thanked aloud each caring, altruistic, shining example of irrepressible human compassion that rode past us silently with scarcely a glance, as if ashamed of their own misanthropic indifference. We didn't need anything, and the fact that there were four of us probably played into the thing, but it's kind of depressing to watch people ride by like insensate robots.

The mech meant that we would be running a bit late. We hopped back on the bikes and headed into Georgetown, suffering only one dropped chain (guess who?) on the way.

Once on M Street, it wasn't long before we reached our destination, where two fixies, an On-One and a Bianchi, sat outside in the cold, signifying that our buddies were inside in the warmth. I got the idea to hang my bike up in a nearby tree, and the others quickly followed suit, stacking the frames helter-skelter between boughs on the barren sapling. We made a half-hearted effort to secure the bikes with a couple of cable locks and headed in and down the stairs to the Birreria.

At the bar, Shiva Steve and Butch were already half a pint up on us, but it didn't take us long to get up to speed. I started out with a 90 Minute IPA, which disappeared quickly. Next, I got my hands on the Duchesse, a red-haired beauty of Flemish ancestry that flowed from the tap like liquid ambrosia and left behind a delicate lace. Wow! By turns tart and sweet; heady, rich, and ruby-colored, but with a punch that steps aside just long enough to let all the flavor through. Red ale just got interesting!

About halfway through my date with the Duchesse, Joe stopped in, bringing us up to the aforementioned record-breaking seven riders. We crowded the bar area, taking up all but two seats.

Finished with the good lady, I moved on to a familiar friend, or should I say comrade, Old Rasputin. Great in the bottle, better on tap! Had this beer been around in the late 19th Century, I have to think that Tsarina Alexander would have been wooed more by its complex personality than by the powers of the mystical eponym himself.

The conversation picked up as the beers went down, focusing on the usual topics: Heidegger and eschatology, existentialism after Sartre, the unwillingness of the US to ratify the Kyoto Protocol, the intrinsic right of indigenous peoples to remain autonomous against the threats presented by globalization, bikes. Well, at least one of those things.

We ordered food, most of us opting for the pizza, which was pretty good and really hit the spot. Loaded with toppings and featuring large hunks of tomato in place of standard red sauce, it disappeared all too quickly.

The other guys were tossing 'em back like it was the final judgement. Gary was favoring the 90 Minute IPAs and seemed immune to their legendary potency. Joe seemed to be sticking with the Belgians. Steve, Butch, and Jason were all over the place in their choices, taking full advantage of the diverse selection. DT ended up trying a bottle of the Rochefort 10. Very good with a truly unique flavor and a huge head that went nuclear as soon as it hit the glass. But the pre-taste hype (and the pre-taste beer?) kind of ruined it for me, so I'm sure I didn't appreciate all it has to offer. Maybe some other time.

From Old Rasputin I moved on to the Saison Dupont. Crisp and a little citrousy with a curious pepper taste that cut through the yeastiness. Huge foam cap. Tasty. At some point, Jason experienced an epiphany of sorts and requested a black-and-tan made up of 60 Minute IPA and Shakespeare Stout. Someone else followed suit. I tried a sip. Yeah, it was good, with both flavors shining through equally—harmony instead of hegemony, can you dig it?

After a few hours, the party began to wind down, with Butch and Joe cutting out first. The rest of us had another beer to brace for the cold. I think ("think" being the operative word here) I ended up back with the Duchesse, though by this time I was probably too impaired to appreciate her European sophistication. We finished up, paid up, thanked Thor, and made our way upstairs and out the door.

Outside, we harvested the bikes and made our way along M Street to Key Bridge, five strong now with the addition of Steve. I took the lead with Jason drafting me, and after the bridge we veered off the path toward Rosslyn to throw in the climb (known as DT's hill) up Key Boulevard. The rest of the ride seemed to go quickly; we rolled down Wilson Boulevard to Fairfax Boulevard alongside light traffic before regaining the Custis Trail. I was surprisingly solid and steady for the amount of alcohol my liver was working overtime to process—wrestling the muscles in my legs for blood, no doubt—and the cold never registered.

Just inside Falls Church, we split up with Steve, since he had to pedal further west to reach home. It wasn't until the next morning that we all learned he'd taken a spill right before we split up, his drunk-biking skills being a bit rusty from neglect. Seems he landed hard on the hand he broke a few years back at the Watershed and was feeling it. Aside from this, it was a great night and a good ride, sure to be repeated.

After all, Pliny the Elder is due for an appearance at the Birreria soon.