At eight in the morning, incoherent and not fully aware of where I was, I reached over to hit snooze on my alarm clock. The room was dark, the bed was warm, and I was nowhere near ready to wake up. So, ten minutes later, another snooze. I repeated this cycle for the next hour until my alarm gave up. I don’t remember any of it, but I didn't get out of bed until eleven thirty, so I have to assume that’s how it all went down. My thought process when setting the alarm the night before went like this:

• Get a solid eight hours of sleep.

• Wake up well rested.

• Get a head start on initiating a new morning routine.

For perspective, I averaged five hours of rest per night during the previous eight weeks on tour. "Sleep" has been my only response to anyone who asked about my post-tour plans. And this “get a head start on a new routine” idea was terrible. No way was I going to jump into any routine without first getting a bunch of long overdue rest. Instead, I’ve slept twenty-four of the past forty-eight hours, and I anticipate another twelve hours tonight.

Now, waking up at home in my own bed after these long-anticipated sleep marathons, you’d assume that I feel well-rested and ready to face what's left of the day. But it's quite the opposite. My brain is foggy as I wander around my house, and it takes an hour before I feel like a human again. I've lived on a tour bus and out of a suitcase for the past two months. Right now, home feels unnatural.

I spot my luggage open and overflowing with everything that needs to be washed and put away. I avoided it for a while, but eventually, I faced the task and balanced the excitement of being home with the frustration of forgetting where we keep things.

On the road, we experience continuous sensory overload. Morning routines on a tour bus are interrupted by whoever wakes up at the same time as we do. We walk into the venue, where several stagehands are having their morning conversations at high volume. During load-in, road cases are lowered from the trailer by a noisy forklift. Rigid rubber casters loudly roll over steel dock plates. And road cases slam into walls and each other. Closer to opening doors, the security team allows each piece of the barricade to crash down on the floor as they build a barrier along the stage. And all day long, people are talking loudly, sometimes yelling to make themselves heard over all this noise. Eventually, it's time for the show itself, which by nature, is loud and full of stimulation. And then, we do it all again in reverse for the load out.

Sleep is at a premium on tour. Doors at each end of the hallway ensure the sleeping quarters remain very dark, and blackout curtains keep light out of each bunk. The generator and diesel engine offer a calming white noise, and the movement of the bus as it rolls down the road rocks me to sleep. I do sleep well on a bus, but we rarely get enough.

Now readjusting to sleep at home, our bedroom is so quiet that I can hear the crickets outside. I've relied on white noise for several years, but my wife thought I was joking when I turned the volume to a level I felt was necessary. I informed her that it was no joke, and we compromised on a more reasonable level to get some rest.

A regular eating schedule requires time to adapt as well. Now off the road, I often don’t eat a single bite of food until late in the afternoon. I’m not avoiding it; I’m just not hungry. My body is undoubtedly still adjusting to the fact that I’m no longer eating meals at three in the morning.

Perhaps most surprising is that the much-anticipated time at home with my wife even takes some adjustment. We’ve missed each other, counting the days until we’re reunited. But there is tension, and we're short with each other for no good reason. People become very independent after being apart for extended periods, and living togetherrequires a grace period for re-acclamation. Years ago, we recognized this phenomenon and termed it "tour lag." Like jet lag, we're simply adapting to life with each other instead of adjusting to a different time zone. We have managed to make the touring lifestyle work for well over a decade at this point. I attribute part of this success to the fact that we’re very aware of how drastic the shift is for both of us when a tour ends.

It’s the combination of several things that leads to tour lag. It’s not that I’m not happy to be home. Or that we don’t want to be around each other. And I don't want to get back on the road just yet. It’s simply an adjustment that takes time. I heard years ago that when U2 finishes a tour, Bono allows himself a week of acclimation at a hotel before finally coming home. I don’t remember the source of this story and can't speak to its accuracy. But it makes complete sense as a remedy for tour lag. In the same vein, a few colleagues of mine always take a vacation immediately after a tour to ease the transition back to “normal” life.

One saving grace for my wife and me is that we do not have any children. Safe to assume that when parents return home following a tour, their young kids are very excited and demand lots of attention. And I imagine the kids wake up for this attention first thing in the morning. The overstimulation of young kids directly conflicts with the time needed for rest and re-acclimation. It all seems overwhelming, and I'm unsure how parents deal with it. Perhaps this is why Bono required a buffer week between the end of the tour and his return home.

I love many aspects of touring. I’m grateful for the experiences I’ve had and the lessons I’ve learned. But the lifestyle does take its toll, and it’s not for the faint of heart. Plenty of technicians at the top of their game cannot deal with or have no interest in dealing with the unique demands of living on the road. Touring personnel don’t get enough sleep or exercise. A healthy diet takes vigilance. And any relationship requires a solid foundation—all worth considering before you take the leap and try touring.