I'm writing this amid a carful of bourbonthusiasts cruising distilleries from Louisville to Lexington, on a cloudless, 70-degree day. It's sort of like Sideways, but with twice as many guys and the only bungholes are filled with yellow poplar.
If you have the chance to come here and do this, I recommend it. I wasn't sure if my aging carcass could handle seven straight hours of shots like it did half my life ago, but so far I'm mostly cogent and able to type this out on my phone.
By the best moment came from our tour guide at Woodford Reserve, who managed to make his thoroughly pedantic antics very enjoyable. This is a man with true passion for bourbon, and whatever you do DO NOT CALL JACK DANIELS BOURBON BECAUSE WHOA NELLY IT IS NOT YOU PHILISTINE PUNTERS.
I'll try to write in greater detail when I'm less buzzed and less in desperate need of a nap. Because since I wrote that thing about my body holding up well, it has totally Romneyed on me. Time to power down before we stock up.