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30 MacGregors Walk Into a Bar |
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 30 MacGregors gather in the parking lot behind the Cherry Tree in West Newton. Spaced intentionally an arm's length apart, they make the right turn onto Cherry Street, John Sales tucked carefully at the back. By the time they reach Washington Street, however, the discipline is blown. Mitchell's opened up a five-man gap. Goldberg's halfway to Harvard. Robert the J has taken a hard left into Ryan Memorial Park because he saw some dirt. And Kalow has it all "film." Linnard salvages the situation with an audible, and a strong group forms at the turn. The Cherry Tree is just ahead on the right, and except for Thor MacP's heart rate spiking at the thought of the waiting scotch (all the more impressive given that he was driving the Chrysler 300 pace car), the numbers look good. Brandhorst is shaking in his Strava. Vescuso digs deep and gets the door open. The final leadout train takes the hard right, Sales still sheltered. The carnage on Washington Street contrasts with the calm inside. Turtle McNeil's trying to unclip from his endo. Other Macs are strewn everywhere, some still coherent enough to wonder why Igoe didn't make the start. Sir Mr. Dr. knows, but he isn't telling--something about doctor-patient confidentiality. Inside, Sales hops out of B-dub's slipstream, puts in a final sprint, drawing and pulling and levering and punching. He slaps his hand on the bar, manages to gasp out "Harpoon IPA," and collapses to the floor. Keery smiles in appreciation, sweat pouring off his brow like it's Fast Splits on an August noon. As the bartender pulls the tap and fills the glass, he gazes down at the spent Sales and says, "Hey, those guys put in a pretty heroic effort to get you here." Just before Sales drifts off into unconsciousness, he whispers, "The good ones will do that." |
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