All I really remember is a long day of meetings ending. A big dinner with waiters keeping the wine glasses full. Evacuating the reception tent as the staff cleaned up all the tables that were empty ... which meant all of them except ours. Moving to the Four Seasons bar. Piling into the hotel's SUV and a bellman shuttling us to an Irish pub in Whistler Village. Johan buying a round for the house. Shannon buying a round of shots at last call, then telling us it was time to move out to hit last call somewhere else.
Six of us rambling through the Village in the wee hours laughing loudly at wisecracks and bad jokes that are funny only to people deeply under the influence. Loud techno music. Shannon taking my money and buying another round of Redheaded Sluts. Finally reaching my room only to find that I'm nowhere near packed. Time for 2 hours of sleep before getting up to meet the van than will take some of us to the airport in Vancouver. Blearily filling out my Customs declaration form and praying for unconsciousness on the plane.
I need sleep. Serious time on the trainer or the trails to repay my body for its selfless and hazardous service. It deserves some sort of Purple Heart for throwing itself on the grenade of my good time.