The deep medium-brown liquid is gently flowing out of one container and into its next while I revel in the glory of yet another kind of magic. While I watch the rich twelve year old elixir swirls over itself, I find it hard to differentiate the past from the present. With a slight tip of the hand, the bottle ever so slightly tilts forward. A touch more of the malt pours outs. Each drop rolling down the side of the glass and revealing both strong and yet powerful legs which let each marvelous drop chases the last one to the bottom.
At this point I’ve now been off the bike for several hours and yet I continue to find myself chewing on the rich texture of the ride. Each corner becoming both its own memory and yet somehow connected to a far greater event. The kind of day, and memory, whose meaning far exceeds its speeds. In someways it’s a jigsaw puzzle of a journey which simply needs to take its time to be completed.
Sipping the single malt, a sense of ease rolls over me. It’s the kind of ease that increasingly seems hard to come by these days. A place where relaxation meets the moment and allows that magical sense of simply being to escape.
Then deep within the complexity of the malt a hint of history reveals itself. I find myself wondering if the fellow who put this magical liquid away twelve long years ago could have possibly imagined that his creation might one day find its way to these shores? Could this man have ever predicted just how perfectly this particular malt would match this particular day?
While pondering the thought, I take one more sip and recall the gloriously bright images of the clearest, most shimmering coastline I’ve ever seen continue to evolve. One of the great glories of California is the clarity that comes right after a rain storm. After all the dark and evil clouds roll through town all that remains is simply the pristine and the picturesque.
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