I'm at a bar with my brothers Steve and Dave. It's a dark, small place, like a neighborhood bar, with simple wooden booths.

Our conversation is interrupted by the two guys that tend the bar, who are saying it's Last Call, and I think I am supposed to order a beer, but they do it differently. They're just coming around with pitchers and filling up everybody's glasses. We had a nearly empty pitcher on the table and they even fill up that. It's too much beer for us to drink before leaving.

Steve and I talk about all this beer, and that we shouldn't drink it. We haven't eaten enough today, and that's why Dave is in the bathroom barfing. Get sick enough and you'll be barfing up poop.

So we leave, Steve and I, in my truck, but we have to stop off somewhere and pick up my bike on the way home. We take an exit off the freeway, to where my bike is, and then I realize it's a straight shot up Multnomah Boulevard to home. I tell Steve it's not even worth loading the bike up, I'll just ride home, and probably beat him there! I start riding up the road.

But I quickly realize that isn't going to work. There's something wrong with the bike, it's all adjusted wrong, my knees are too close to my chest and the handlebars too close or too far, and it's just impossibly uncomfortable to ride. I flag Steve down at the intersection by the Post Office. I think there was some construction on that part of Multnomah, which I was able to ride through, but he had to go around through the village, and now he's coming back to Multnomah on the Post Office road. Anyway, fortunately, it slowed him down, so I could catch him and get the bike loaded up.