Scotch Spirits

“I’m starving.” I plop into my chair, turning to meet Liz, a friend of my buddy, Barb.

“Me, too,” Liz says over the bustle of the lunch rush. “I just biked 40 miles.”

Forty miles?

“Well,” I say, “I walked the dogs for about 20 minutes.”

“Liz competes in mountain bike races,” Barb says.

It’s not enough she bikes, but now she bikes up mountains.

We’re meeting to discuss a trip to Scotland. Barb and I talked about Scotland, Scottish men, kilts and that amazing accent at a recent lunch. We may have also discussed the abundance of distilleries.

Barb asked if she could invite her friend, Liz. Now I’m not so sure. I was expecting sightseeing, quiet strolls, and frequent distillery stops. It’s difficult to savor scotch when you’re laboring up a Scottish mountain. It sounds like a reality show, Drunk Biking.

“We’ll each do our own thing, of course,” Barb says. “If I want to visit a distillery and Liz wants to go biking, then you can do whatever you want,”

Like I’m ever going to pass up visiting a distillery.

“I agree,” Liz says. “Then we can all meet up for dinner.”

This sounds better. Liz is about 30 years younger than me and Barb. She can spend her days whizzing around corners and dodging sheep, and we can enjoy the scenery and distilleries.

A friend of Barb’s is loaning us a car in the Highlands for a few days. I’m not so sure he would be so quick to offer if he knew how many distillery stops we intend to make.

“I’m nervous about driving on the opposite side of the road,” I say.

“I’ll drive,” Liz says. I’m liking this chick more every minute.

We plan and laugh, and before we know it, two hours have passed.

“It’s going to be a fabulous trip,” Barb says. Liz and I agree.

Liz rises to return to work. We wave goodbye as she hurries off. I forgive her for being young and athletic.

“You know,” I tell Barb as we hug, “people are going to think she’s our caregiver.”