It took ten hours to get home on Monday. I spent the time cooped up in the backseat of a friend's overloaded car fighting off the assault of precariously perched helmets and other gear. I was suffering from a severe hangover, the kind where it feels like your punished soul is trying to escape through your eyeballs. Solid food was beyond my ability. I passed the time by mentally inventorying the items within reach that I could throw up in and wondering at what angle my head would fit through the childproofed back window without getting stuck. I watched the world go by outside between naps and moments of pure nausea. The long weekend traffic was stop-and-go at points, usually with the congestion caused by line-ups of RV's waiting to go to places like The Enchanted Forest, which boast 350 jolly folk art figurines. It made me feel lucky to ride bikes, lucky that my long weekend Holy Grail involved mountains and really cool people, not gimmicky Styrofoam and overpriced hot dogs.