Nobody Gets Out Sober
Hungover. Happy. Both true.
When I think back to my childhood, the strongest feeling I associate with that time is the freedom and joy of going bike riding.
Till this day, there haven’t been too many experiences that top it. A warm spring after-school evening. Racing to meet your friends at the park. Biking over to the neighborhood Hasty Market, which normally took way too long by foot. Zipping through the streets, cutting through the lawns of those unfortunate houses that lived on the corner. Flying down and feeling the rush of wind on your face on what felt like massive hills.
The joy and freedom of pedalling as hard and as fast as you wanted, with no one able to stop you.
I distinctly remember the times of going down a big hill, pedalling with all my might to go as fast as possible, heavy panting, and looking over and seeing a friend keeping up or going faster, both of you racing down the hill, both grinning and laughing.
Peak nostalgia.
The natural evolution of this, for boys, was the day we got our driver’s license.
Specifically, the holy grail. The province of Ontario called it the G2. It meant you could drive your car by yourself, and also on the highway.
Boy, did we do some reckless things.
There was one night, late in university. Probably around 1 in the morning. Our school was out in the middle of nowhere — Waterloo, surrounded by farms and country roads. We drove to a stretch of highway that was the literal end of the highway, where it felt like the edge of the universe, where no one would bother us. Fields on either side. No cops. No cars. We lined up all four of our cars right in the middle of the highway, one of us in the oncoming traffic lane, all of us on a 4-way speakerphone call. It felt like the Temu version of Fast & Furious. We counted down on the phone… 3… 2… 1… and slammed our almighty sedan’s pedal to the metal.
I remember hitting 150 km/h.
Exhilarated.
Looking over at the car next to you and feeling that same joy and freedom.
Peak coming of age.
This past Sunday, I woke up hungover.
My lovely Saturday night involved two clubs. Two VIP tables. First Shinjuku, then a 2 AM Uber ride across the city into Ginza, more sparklers, a bottle service Nobody Gets Out Sober sign that made me chuckle, and of course, more liquor.
The funny thing is, you don’t feel drunk at the club. You feel drunk when you leave.
Thinking back, I know we were definitely too loud in that Uber ride to Ginza. If I was sitting in the front seat, and I could hear the yelling from the second-row back seat, we were definitely drunk.
The one thing that never quite gets old is the walk down the stairs when you get to the club. Where we went in Ginza, well, anywhere really, it’s always the same. The same low bass you just slightly hear outside. You get your wristband. Go past coatcheck. The bass becomes more obvious. Escalator or a flight down the stairs and you forget just how drunk you were in that Uber a few minutes ago. And then when someone finally opens that door at the bottom of the stairs, the music becomes fully audible, and the movie starts all over again.
It wasn’t always like this.
When I was 19, the budget was a student budget. The cheapest vodka we could get, Polar Ice. $20.
When I was 22, we graduated. Slightly. Captain Morgan and Jack Daniel’s, $24.95.
At 25, I moved downtown for the first time. We’d chug a bottle of Crown Royal before going into the bar in an effort to save money. The bar tab would still end up being around $150. At that time, it felt like an embarrassingly shameful amount.
When I was around 28, 29, things really started adding up. Casa Amigos, Hennessy, three, four of them a night. The total damage next day, probably $300, $400 per mans. Honestly hurt.
When I hit 33, our business finally found its footing. We were making some serious bank. And this is when the Azuls first made their appearance. For reference, it’s quite possibly the most delicious drop of reposado you’ve ever had. It still doesn’t justify the $1000 price tag, more like $1200/$1300 after tax and grat. But there would be a certain itch we’d have when we went out. To enjoy this newfound freedom between me and my partners. A certain grin we’d give each other standing inside the booth at a club — ight, I guess we’re here. Guess we’re going in tonight, eh?
A few years ago, I went to Tulum for a close friend’s 35th birthday. That whole weekend was wild. But there was one particular night. For some reason, all of us subconsciously must’ve been on the same page. I think the night totalled thirty-three bottles for the whole lot of us. Thirty-three, I kid you not. It was non-stop. Non-stop sparklers. Non-stop signs. Just when you thought you were getting the hang of the night, you noticed the distinct flare and light up of the sparklers. After bottle number 10 it was pure bewilderment on all of our faces.
I’ve come to realize, it’s all the same.
That feeling of joy and freedom.
As a kid biking down the hill. At university, in the driver’s seat of a car too fast for an empty highway. And now, spending quite literally thousands of dollars at the club.
It’s all a feeling.
Here’s the thing about this feeling as well.
Of course it’s stupid. Riding full speed down a hill at nine was stupid. I’ve still got a scar on my right knee from it. Risking a dumb accident from racing on the highway. One mistake could’ve altered our lives.
I know.
But sometimes, the stupidity is the whole point.
That’s what the grin is. The grin is I know exactly what I’m doing and how dumb it is and I’m going to do it anyway. It’s the middle finger to the world for a second. The horsepower under you. The freedom of saying fuck it, we ball as you point to the Azul and ask for two. For a moment, you’re floating. You’re free.
Most people lose that feeling. They grow out of it. They get sensible. They get sober — not just from the booze, but from the whole thing.
I’m ok holding on to it.
Here’s what’s also true.
It’s slowing down. Basically over.
Most of my friends — most of my business partners — have kids now. Everyone’s settled. Everyone’s spread out. I’m in Tokyo. They’re not. Nights like Saturday don’t happen the way they used to. The frequency has dropped a lot.
The joy is the same. The frequency is not.
And one day it’ll stop entirely. One day, you’re too tired to go out. One day, the friends aren’t around to call. One day, you’re not around to call them.
The sign at the table was right.
Nobody gets out sober. Nobody gets out alive either.
Knowing that makes me want to ride the bike harder. Not slower.
I know there’s more to life. I’m banking on it. But I’m also banking on holding onto this while we go on this ride.