It's a less than onerously damp morning. Some middling sprinkles, but nothing preclusive to the travel plans in question: A quick shot out to the primary Edifice d'Ruegs to meet up with Ma and Pops, and then a zip down 101. Meticulously packed. Unambiguously prepared. Ready to knock out what should be a relatively modest metric century amidst the rolling hillsides of Solvang.
Solvang - Land of the Swedes. Or the Danes? Holland? Is this where Holland is now?
Whatever, it's one of those Scandinavian countries that pumps out slender, debilitatingly polite testaments to eugenic fantasy. Cool abs and perfectly tousled hair, Saaggenstrommer family. Eat all the shit.
In any case, en route, we must, of course, make a stop in Paso at the Firestone Walker Taproom and Memorial Center for Continued Discussion around the Size and Depth of the Hole in the Ass that Certain Astrophysicists May or May Not Continue to Occupy.
Yes, the ribs were delicious. So, so obviously.
From there, the rigid, industry-certified pre-ride preparation routine continued at Daou winery, home of the unnecessary vowel, where we took in several delicious tastings for which we were very nearly eligible. A splash of estate grown cabernet and a selection of bread sticks made entirely of compressed cocaine and butter served as a pleasant respite from the then-biblical downpour. Fresh off the tipple, the crew presses on.
Hi. We're obviously professional wine types from way back. Love the new stuff and the old stuff. Wanna top us off, sugartits? Bone dry over here.
The home stretch to arrival yields to a main drag one can only describe as The Ass End of the It’s a Small World ride. Cute, quaint and thematic, but not exactly rife with entertainment. Or lighting. I guess the Danes – turns out Solvang is a Danish enclave, by the way – really prefer not to see particularly far at any given point.
Notwithstanding a Stevie Wonder-esque dearth of visibility, our evening stumbles eventually net us an arrival at First & Oak, a stellar dining establishment selected by Ma Ruegs specializing in things you don’t know and can’t pronounce.
You’ll have two of those, will you? Because that’s the French word for “napkin” and you’re not wearing a shirt. Were you not a complete philistine, you’d realize the entire menu is silent, save for one “k” printed in a shade of ink nominally different from the color of the paper. You know what, we’ll bring you a plate of chicken nuggets and a “Famous Land Victories of the French Army: 1930 to 1945” coloring book.
It’s another napkin. Do not color it.
Another delicious meal tackled, the group heads in for an early evening. Risin’ time, after all, is 6:20. Best to get things sorted now, to pare the risk of confusion and negligence during what scientists commonly refer to as “the dummo hours”. Just lay everything out so all you have to do is hop up and get in your…
Shit.
I forgot my f$%@ing cycling shoes.