earned, a reward for pushing our physi-
cal limits, or even just winning the battle
against work, life, and inertia to get out
for an hour ride on a weeknight.
We get to stay outside longer. We can
sit on the tailgate and watch the sunset
bathe the world in soft golden light. We
can eke out another 30 minutes of fresh
air and freedom before we return to our
responsibilities.
Most importantly, we’re together. The
parking lot beer is the end cap that seals
in the group high of a great ride. And it’s
not just the buzz. Our love for postride
parking lot beers is actually deeply human.
“As a species, we are addicted to
ritual,” says a report to the European
Commission, titled “Social and Cultural
Aspects of Drinking.” “Almost every
event of any significance in our lives is
marked with some sort of ceremony or
celebration—and almost all of these ritu-
als, in most cultures, involve alcohol.” We
drink to celebrate weddings, birthdays,
promotions, bachelorette parties. The
parking lot beer is a celebration, too: of
the ride, something shared.
According to the same report, every
culture designates its own distinct
“drinking-places,” special environments
that are each “a discrete social world with
its own laws, customs, and values.” In the
parking lot, it is perfectly acceptable to
be caked in sweat and grime, sporting
helmet hair, even still in chamois. The
rules of the parking lot f lout more than
open-container laws; they f lick society’s
expectations about how we’re supposed to
look and smell and where we’re supposed
to drink. On the bike we’re wild and free;
in the parking lot, we can stay that way
a little longer.
Here’s the unspoken rule about parking
lot beers: If you’re gonna bring ’em, you
gotta bring ’em for everyone. This makes
them the great equalizer after any ride.
No matter where you were in the pack—
driving the pace on the front, or dangling
off the back—when the cooler comes out,
everyone gets a beer. Everyone brings
their can or bottle in for the cheers. The
parking lot beer brings us back together.
Which illuminates the final, happy
paradox of the parking lot beer—that it’s
not really about the beer at all. Not long
ago, I was on a 15-person trail ride that
ended at a parking lot. We were out for
four hours, and a lot happened: We had
taken turns conquering tricky sections
and encouraging one another. There had
been a couple of crashes, one resulting in
a broken derailleur and tears. Eventually,
some of the group had broken off—pre-
sented with the prospect of another climb,
they decided they were over it. But when
we got to the cars, one of the guys lugged
out a massive cooler, and everyone’s face lit
up even if not everyone grabbed a beer. It
didn’t matter what was in your hand. As we
clinked beer cans on seltzer cans and water
bottles and high-fived, I knew we were
celebrating more than the ride. We were
celebrating something endured together
and something enjoyed together. We held
the secret to eternal youth. We celebrated
the overf lowing sense of being alive.THE UNSPOKEN
RULE ABOUT
PARKING LOT BEERS:
IF YOU’RE GONNA
BRING ’EM, YOU
GOTTA BRING ’EM
FOR EVERYONE.