My consciousness begrudgingly turned over as the early morning light filtered through the window -- and as Willow, my corgi puppy, rooted around in her crate. After a few moments, I realized the novelty of waking up with the sun having already risen. My curiosity got the best of me, and I checked the time: 7:08 a.m. “Well, it’s Saturday,” I thought, “so I could try to go back to sleep...nah. I want to run.” I got up, pulled on some warm clothes, and took Willow outside to do her business. Mission duly accomplished, I came back inside, donned my running gear, did some quick stretching, and hit the pavement.
I left with the notion of completing a 10k, but I secretly hoped to go a little further than that. Working against those goals, I figured, was last night’s modest indulgence in a few bottles of Odell’s Easy Street Wheat. I was determined to power through, however, so I set my jaw and plodded along, bracing for the inevitable dry-mouth backlash. Except it never came. It seemed I had sufficiently metabolized the Easy Streets in my sleep as to enjoy a decent enough physical equilibrium, and so I was home free -- except for the remaining 4 or 5 miles of the run, of course.
My little metabolic victory fascinated me, and, juxtaposed with the fact that I was now voluntarily running down the street at 8 o'clock on a Saturday morning, set me thinking about my beering identity. (Because what else would I be moved to think about?) Indeed, I found myself wondering, “What does it mean for me to be a modern American guy who really likes beer?” Naturally, my mind offered an image of the archetypal lazy, pot-bellied oaf, a la Homer Simpson. The thought continued to amuse me as I weighed it against my circumstances and proclivities.
So what’s the answer, then? Who am I? After all, my appreciation of beer doesn’t seem to fit into my get-up-and-run lifestyle, although in reality, it fits quite well. What a fascinating thing to be so attached to labels and categories as to seek to affix them to oneself -- and to be confused at oneself when one defies the stereotype into which one *ought* to fit.
As it is, I kept trying to figure it out, and I came up with something that made good, honest sense from a “typical persona” standpoint: I’m a 30-something-year-old bearded white man who lives in Colorado: of course I love beer! It all makes sense now!
I couldn’t help but chuckle as I rounded the final corner and broke out of my run. 7.3 miles, all in all -- not too shabby. Maybe there’s something unknowable about Easy Street Wheat and Saturday morning runs. Maybe there’s something unknowable about my love of beer and, indeed, about my fundamental nature. Or maybe I'm overthinking it a bit.
Regardless, it got me to 7.3, so I'm content.
O'Dell's Easy Street Wheat
(image source: www.bicycling.com via google image search...yeah, I didn't take a picture of my own)
Odell's Easy Street Wheat is easily my favorite wheat beer. An excellent, refreshing mouthfeel paired with a balanced, citrus-infused flavor makes for a highly enjoyable and highly drinkable glass o' suds.
Twitter & Untapp'd: @nategismot