Small futures

As the days have progressed into weeks, and the weeks into a couple of months, I’m starting to wake up, metaphorically.

It’s slow. Sometimes it’s 2 steps forward and three back.

I struggle for motivation to do stuff in work that I’d normally just crush

But I feel the weight lifting, just a little bit.

I’m able to give thanks for being able to fall asleep quickly without having had a bottle of wine. That took a couple of weeks to settle in, but it happened.

The headspace is still fuzzy, but it is improving.

The urges now are very much less than they were.

In 4 weeks, we reopen our static caravan in mid-Wales for the season. I always looked forward to that because it was when I would buy a box of wine, 6 bottle equivalent, for the weekend.

Because of that strong association with drinking, this January I was feeling apprehensive about going to what we euphemistically call our “country estate”.

As the weeks have passed, I’m starting to turn that anxiety around. I know I don’t have to drink; I’m managing to not drink every night and as at the time of writing this, have done so for 63 nights, including Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve and a big social club party.

The static caravan is, in my head, still my weekend safe space, where I get away from the stress of work into some green relaxing countryside, 20 minutes from a beach we can walk our dogs and just chill. Waves of the Irish sea rolling in, gulls calling, oyster catchers running through the surf.

So I’m focusing on those aspects and putting down the wine box. It’s not needed.

On reflection, it was never “needed”. It was just there, another manifestation of an addiction to the alcohol. It didn’t add anything or make those weekends any better. In reality, it made things harder.

Harder to get out of bed in the morning.

Harder to get going and get out to the beach.

Harder to enjoy the beauty of the natural world the caravan is nestled in, at the bottom of a steep sided valley, with a small river flowing through a various conifers growing up the sides of the valley.

Inverting the anxiety of the caravan has given me some strength for the next little challenge in April.

I’ve ridden motorcycles since my late teens, got my bike licence 5 years before my car licence.

My wife and I have been members of a long established, independent, single make riders club for well over a decade.

Throughout spring, summer and early autumn there are weekend rallies and if we’re not at the “country estate” we’re in a tent at a bike rally.

Rally’s are fun, there’s always bands playing live in the evenings, a ride-out in the day on the Saturday and are generally held in places with interesting things to see and do.

But they are also events where the attendees are usually looking to drink beer, wine or spirits in varying amounts, usually, excessive.

The first rally is in late April.

I’ve never done a rally sober.

I’ve arrived sober, naturally, I won’t drink and try to ride the bike.

The usual routine is get to the rally, book in, get onto the field and find where our friends have pitched their tents. Unload the bike and I start pitching our tent while my wife goes to the bar and gets me a pint to “unwind” from the ride to the venue.

Depending on the weather, we’ll sit on camp chairs outside our tents socialising, or retreat to a gazebo, marque or club house to sit and socialise over some more drinks.

Food gets served at some point, the band sets up and plays a couple of sets and a generally good time is had.

Except

I generally don’t remember much beyond the first 3 or 4 songs. By about 8pm I’ve been drinking steadily for 4 or 5 hours and had 6 or 7 pints of 4% or 5% beer.

I continue to drink until about midnight, then, with my wife’s support, we’ll head back to the tent and I crash out.

The next morning I’m in no fit state to go on the ride-out and even at 11am am probably still over the legal alcohol limit to ride.

So a late breakfast of a fry-up, bacon, egg, tomatoes, baked beans, black pudding, hash brown, toast a couple of mugs of tea.

I know missing the ride-out is disappointing for my wife, who loves being on the pillion.

So I’m planning how I’m going to deal with this high risk, high stakes event.

Not attending would be safest, but that would be a huge disappointment for the good lady in my life. She looks forward to these more than I do, she also drinks far far less than I did or most of the other people there. And she loves to dance to the band music.

So we’ve spoken about how I’ll deal with this.

I can use the tent as a safe space, so if the gazebo, marque, club house gets too much, I’ll bail and retreat to the tent. We have plenty of power packs to keep mobile phones charged and I usually have something I can read to wind down and recharge the “social batteries”.

I’ll have the ride-out to look forward to and know I won’t be in danger of loosing my licence for drink driving.

At the club party, the big social event in January, I didn’t have to tell anyone I’m now not drinking as I was “designated driver”.

I’ll see how it goes at the rally, but if anyone notices I’m drinking lime and soda, Guinness Zero, Heineken Zero or other non-alcohol beer then I’ll respond as appropriate to the individual, context and circumstance. What I choose to drink is my choice at the end of the day and I’m choosing sober.

I’m also looking forward to the rally.