Technically, cyclists did not invent drinking beer in the parking lot. Nor are we the only people who are known to partake, with gusto, out of the back of a vehicle (skiers, climbers, and underage teenagers also come to mind). But I’d argue that no other user group more universally recognizes the parking lot as the best place on God’s green earth that you could possibly drink a beer.
For starters, there’s the immediate gratification. At no other time will that first, ice-cold sip taste more thirst-quenching and delicious than right off that last sweet singletrack descent, or as it cools your burning throat after the final lap of the training crit. There’s the fact that it feels earned, a reward for pushing our physical limits, or even just winning the battle against work, life, and inertia to get out for an hour ride on a weeknight.
We get to stay outside longer. We can sit on the tailgate and watch the sunset bathe the world in soft golden light. We can eke out another 30 minutes of fresh air and freedom before we return to our responsibilities.
Most importantly, we’re together. The parking lot beer is the end cap that seals in the group high of a great ride. And it’s not just the buzz. Our love for postride parking lot beers is actually deeply human. “As a species, we are addicted to ritual,” says a report to the European Commission, titled “Social and Cultural Aspects of Drinking.” “Almost every event of any significance in our lives is marked with some sort of ceremony or celebration—and almost all of these rituals, in most cultures, involve alcohol.” We drink to celebrate weddings, birthdays, promotions, bachelorette parties. The parking lot beer is a celebration, too: of the ride, something shared.
Recommended by BICYCLING’s features director and resident beer nerd, Matt Allyn, coauthor of The Brewer’s Apprentice.
According to the same report, every culture designates its own distinct “drinking-places,” special environments that are “a discrete social world with its own laws, customs, and values.” In the parking lot, it is perfectly acceptable to be caked in sweat and grime, sporting helmet hair, even still in chamois. The rules of the parking lot flout more than open-container laws; they flick society’s expectations about how we’re supposed to look and smell and where we’re supposed to drink. On the bike we’re wild and free, in the parking lot, we can stay that way a little longer.
Here’s the unspoken rule about parking lot beers: If you’re gonna bring ’em, you gotta bring ’em for everyone. This makes them the great equalizer after any ride. No matter where you were in the pack—driving the pace on the front, or dangling off the back—when the cooler comes out, everyone gets a beer. Everyone brings their can or bottle in for the cheers. The parking lot beer brings us back together.
Which illuminates the final, happy paradox of the parking lot beer—that it’s not really about the beer at all. Not long ago, I was on a 15-person trail ride that ended at a parking lot. We were out for four hours, and a lot happened: We had taken turns conquering tricky sections and encouraging one another. There had been a couple of crashes, one resulting in a broken derailleur and tears.
Eventually, some of the group had broken off—presented with the prospect of another climb, they decided they were over it. But when we got to the cars, one of the guys lugged out a massive cooler, and everyone’s faces lit up even if not everyone grabbed a beer. It didn’t matter what was in your hand. As we clinked beer cans on seltzer cans and water bottles and high-fived, I knew we were celebrating more than the ride. We were celebrating something endured together and something enjoyed together. We held the secret to eternal youth. We celebrated the overflowing sense of being alive.