I once made the mistake of walking into a Santa Fe bar in my road kit. It wasn’t a fancy place, but it also wasn’t a spot on the typical post-ride drinking circuit. While I was perusing the menu, I noticed a commotion down the bar and turned to find a happily soused local gaping at me. He said something about my outfit (not sure what, but it was no compliment), and then burst into unabashed, tear-streaming laughter. I tried to ignore him, but he fell on the floor in hysterical spasms. His hilarity was infectious, and several others began cackling—including my wife, who’d had the good sense to change clothes. All hopes for a quiet drink were off, and I clack-clack-clacked back the way I’d come having learned two important lessons. First, we cyclists need bars for cyclists, where we can kick back among like minds and geek out about carbon derailleurs and the day’s big drops. Second, no matter what type of establishment you’re drinking in, leave the chamois at the door.
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