For a very long time alcohol has been a large part of my life.
I worked in and managed many pubs. I spent years serving pints and watching people at the bar after a long day. I fostered countless friendships over a beer. Every relationship I've had started in places where alcohol was part of the backdrop. I even run a website called Beermountain.
If you would have asked me a few years ago whether I would ever stop drinking, I would have laughed at you.
Then last year, things changed.
Last year I received a liver tumour diagnosis. Suddenly there were far more important things to think about than what beer I might be drinking at the weekend. Surgery followed and, thankfully, I was later given the all-clear. During that time, I stopped drinking and lost a lot of weight getting ready for the surgery.
There was never a plan to give up drinking forever. I just had other things happening in my life.
As time passed, something happened. I stopped missing it.
I recently tried having a small drink. Not because I wanted to, but because I thought I should. After all, drinking had been part of my life for years.
What happened surprised me.
I didn't enjoy it. I didn't tolerate it and it made me sleepy. The pleasure I hoped for wasn't there.
That led me to ask a question I had not really considered before.
What was it that I actually enjoyed about drinking?
For years I had watched customers come into pubs after work and order that first pint. I could see the happiness on their faces. But I wondered if it was ever really about the alcohol.
The feeling that you get from that first pint happens before the alcohol has had a chance to do anything.
What people are actually experiencing is the end of the working day. The release of tension. The company of friends. The familiar surroundings. The ritual. The reward after a hard day.
The alcohol gets the credit. But the feeling was already there.
I've realised something similar about my own life.
When I look back at the good times, I'm not really remembering the beer. I'm remembering the people, the conversations, the laughter, the motorsport, the journeys.
The beer happened to be there, so I assumed it was central to the memory.
Or maybe it wasn't.
Which brings me to Le Mans.
Anyone who knows me will understand why this matters to me.
For many years, arriving at Le Mans has meant opening and drinking an ice cold beer. It's part of the ritual. The journey is over, the campsite is set up, friends are close, the Le Mans week has started.
The first beer at Le Mans isn't just a drink. It's a signal that you've arrived.
But this year may be different.
My mates will still be drinking. The atmosphere will still be there. The race will still be there. The laughter, the stories, the late nights and the sound of racing cars disappearing into the darkness will all still be there.
The only thing that may be different is what's in my glass.
And perhaps that's what I've learned.
For years I thought alcohol was responsible for many of the best moments in my life. Now I think it may simply have been there while those moments happened.
The friendships were real. The relationships were real. The adventures were real. The beer was often just the scenery.
So I don't know whether I'll have a drink when I arrive at Le Mans this year.
I might. I might not.
The experience and the ritual still mean something to me. But if I do have one, it will be because I genuinely want one — not because I feel I need one.
That feels like a very different relationship with alcohol than the one I had in the past.
The biggest surprise of all is that after decades of drinking, I no longer think of myself as someone who has stopped drinking alcohol.
Instead, I now think of myself as someone who has discovered that the important things were never in the glass.
When I look back at the best memories of my life, I don't remember what I was drinking.
I remember who I was with. I remember where I was. I remember the conversations, the laughter, the friendships, the relationships, the races, the pubs and the adventures.
The beer was there. But it wasn't the reason those moments mattered.
It turns out that what made those memories special was never what was in the glass. It was who I shared it with, and where life took me while I was holding it.
Cheers,
Chris 'Bingo' Ring
Beermountain
