Ah, back from the paradise that is otherwise known as Romania. Mmm. Romania. Mmm, business travel. Sometimes I hear people talking at the airport about their travels. You know, business people discussing their goings-to and comings-from in the small-talkish....or possibly one-uppish....manner you often have to resort to with fellow business travelers to pass the time. I often hear: "Yeah, just finished up 3 days in Vegas. Whoa! is my liver tired." Responded to with a "Yes, my clients in New York City took me to a show with dinner in SoHo." Alas, here's what I hear:

"Greg, we need you in Romania, pal. You do you have your shots, right?"

Shots?? Romania?? This is the story of my life.

These trips take the tar right out of me, and unfortunately I do about 100K worth of these a year...which you all know by now as I rant how I balance all that with trying to be uber husband and dad and a bike racer. I am naturally high strung so it's hard to let stuff roll off the back, so business -travel...which by its very design is neither fun, nor relaxing...is the Darth to vacation-travel's Luke. It turns me into Postal Rager....at least on the inside of my overactive brain because I can't stand those fat slob million mile flier fools with bad business guy shoes and haircuts with their idiotic blue tooth things sticking out of their fat heads going ape-shit on the United person behind the desk.

Whoa. Sorry.

I want to now dip into some dark secrets of (my) travel. That being my nemeses and my love all intertwined in this inseparable helix of mind-strain passing guilt and pleasure like a ping pong ball between the hemispheres of my brain crescendoing in ever increasing volleys as if miniature Koreans have entered and made my brain their ping pong table. This dark secret I speak of is of course...

Beer.

I try so hard when traveling to be Pope-like. I figure if I can avoid the sauce, I can maybe try and keep some sort of fitness. Ha. I was DETERMINED on this week long trip to avoid it. I get in my car to DIA and I am chanting it. "Long week man. Stick to your goal. Get the work done, skip the beers, get home. One week. You can totally do it." I get on the plane, first flight, sit in my seat, take off and the lady swings on by like clockwork once we've reached our cruising altitude. "Can I get you something to drink, sir."

Oh my God. Moment of truth.

"Um, sure. I'll take a Ginger ale." She turns her head and begins to start to walk down the aisle and my Fortress of Truth and Righteousness suddenly caves in like the walls of a communist-era pre-fab building in a 9.2 magnitude earthquake. "Oh, miss! Sorry, and whatever beer you have in there. Please."

And so, I have a series of after shocks while in the great City of Iasi, Romania taking on board their golden brown and bubbly delicacies as a mechanism to cope....and because I did not trust the water.

But, I digress and am home. Back in the Republic with fam and friends. I get in Friday night late and spend the day with the fam. My kids never leave my side and we get our play on something fierce. Sunday is riding day with the RM-Izze crew. Can't wait to just BE with my compatriots. We assemble and we have a great crew. Newbies and old crew alike. Men's team and womens. We set the compass to Carter Lake and get our game on. The ride out is civilized and fun. That is until, of course, yours truly smiles, looked a Boups and we go. Game on. I start the first salvo on the rollers out there and go from a nice and calm 144 BPM to a vomit inducing 182 in a matter of seconds. It goes on like this to the top of the climb including sprints and other throw down frolics. We take a breather at the lake's crest. I am absolutely, positively going to vomit. I've never had this ball of not in my stomach. Water rushing into my mouth. I'm done for. This is what you get for not touching the bike or raising your heart rate for 8 days at sea level. OK, 285 feet.

We turn around and I am done for. I have to let the boys go and spin my spin and ensure that if it comes, they won't see me boot. Of course, God himself kicks up an insulting 45 MPH head wind which seems to change direction to face me no matter which way I turn. Indeed, I make it home, vultures circling above me. I crawl off my bike and limp inside. Done.

Oh, yes, we'll be getting it on again next weekend. Wouldn't want it any other way.

Some digital celluloid before we kicked off and I proceed to forget I have the camera.