Gettin' In the Zone

Work has been crazy busy.

Last Wednesday I was in Cleveland. Friday, it was Erie.

We're planning to move locations in Erie, so my dad and I went up there to look at a few buildings. The first place was a vacated warehouse and storefront that used to be a bakery. It was filled with a bunch of dusty old equipment and giant walk-in coolers.

There was also a bunch of food-grade grease and oil all over the floor. It was pretty gross, and the place smelled like a dead animal stuffed with baking flour and other wheat-based thingies.

The second place was a magazine and newspaper distribution center that sat next to a dance club.



The seller then told us it was a gay dance club.

He looked at us, concernedly. He didn't know how to read us. After all, we are just a couple of dummies that sell car paint. From Butler, no less. The hard sell began.

He said the owners of The Zone were the best neighbors he could have asked for. "They keep the place under control. It's quiet. No litter in the parking lots."

There was a pause. He was nervous. "Uh, cars aren't left overnight by over-indulgers..."

We stood quiet; the two dummies looking back at him. Sweat was beading up on his forehead. He rattled off more positive attributes. More positive scenarios. He was persuasive and plausible. He was in the zone.

My dad cut to the chase and said it didn't matter. I agreed. I said I wasn't gay but liked to dance. I did an impromptu moonwalk. The seller laughed. My dad didn't.

All of a sudden we're down to one dummy in the room. A dancing dummy.

The place ended up being really great, and that's what really mattered. Much better than the bakery. I think that's actually where we may end up. We have a contractor going up to plan some renovations. Friday: success.

As for Saturday, I woke up with a strong intent to ride. A solid 90%.

The weather forecast didn't look all that great, but halfway through making sweet potato pancakes my 90% was still holding strong.

About halfway through eating said pancakes, it was down around 0%.

We thought we'd get some work done around the house. Maybe go for a hike. Instead, we drove down to Shadyside and ate a bunch of food with Gotch on the patio at Harris Grill.

Ok, so not from this weekend. But I'm really in the mood for Thai, so I added it. This is at Nicky's sorta-new downtown spot.

I got a nice ride in on my Fargo, on Sunday. Ryanne had plans with her dad at North Park, so I was given a free pass to get lost by myself. I punched my ticket shortly after breakfast. Destination: unknown.

The day was super nice. I managed to stop at my parents part-way through and visit for a bit. I was getting a little sleepy, so I high-tailed it to Mars to get some espresso, then made my way home. A few miles short of a century with a bunch of climbing. Sunday: success.

Oh, I found what may be my new favorite roast for espresso. It's from Counter Culture in Georgia. I bought a bag of whole bean at Espresso a Mano in Lawrenceville. They have it for $13.75. It's pretty rich, creamy and bold. I would recommend pulling a shot or two, regardless of time of day or caffeine quantity already-consumed.

Or you can just meet me at Espresso a Mano, because that just may be my new favorite place.

Wednesday Daydream

My commuter bike has been out of action for a couple weeks. It's been a bummer.

The cables are stretched. The chain is stretched. Everything's stretched. If I were compelled to weigh the condition of my brake pads against a living or deceased person, I would select deceased. Probably someone from the 80's, nonetheless. The 1380's.

The bottom bracket started making noise about a month ago. I was hoping to get a little more use out of the bearings, so I pushed it. And it got worse. So I continued to push it. And it got much worse.

Riding to work became more of a chore than simply riding to work. Pedaling was more difficult. The peaceful sounds of morning nothingness were drowned out by what can essentially be summed up as my procrastination.

Take a few Wednesdays ago, for example:

The wind on Route 68 at a minimum; the traffic a bit heavy for 6:30AM. I climb over a small roller a mile outside of Evans City. I look off to my right. The sun's rays cross miles of trees and healthy green farmland. They refract through the cool morning fog and bounce through the easterly cornucopia of life. Their destination? My sweaty face. A welcomed feeling.

Another mile of fast descending; my face is now dry. I cross a quick bridge and coast to the base of Buhl Hill. I start pedaling up the grade, and all of a sudden I'm on the Thunderbolt at Kennywood. The rattle and grind of grit and dry bearings perfectly mimicking any and all acoustics produced by the famous coaster's decades-old chain-lift.

My dangerous daydream continues, and the sound of the three-ton chain keeps me on the coaster. I get hungry for Potato Patch fries. My drop bars start to feel more like the 'Bolt's black rubber bar that has been subjected to thousands of death grips over the years. I'm ascending. The front seat is the best seat, and I'm there. I start to raise my arms, ready for the downhill. A semi screams past, barreling up the hill, ripping me back to reality. Visions of Noah's Ark and The Whip whip out of my mind. My bottom bracket howls back at the 18-wheeler, and I swear the driver flinches. I win.

My lack of maintenance and subsequent bill on parts reminds me that I still lose.

So, the Cross-Check has been relegated to the basement bicycle dungeon for the time being. I've been able to spend more time on my Fargo, though. It's actually been pretty fun to ride on the road with flat pedals and two racks while carrying nothing.

I've been wearing these Keen CNX sandal/shoe/webbed foot protector things. They're like Chacos. So far, they've been pretty enjoyable to ride in. Ry and I did an 80 mile ride up Route 19, through Moraine, then back south. Not before stopping in Harmony for some espresso, though. They held up well and didn't slip all over the place. I'm super happy with them.

Aside from the biking stuff, I have a bunch of photos that I need to get together and post. I'm bummed this thing is all text. Google Bots like text, and that leads to fake page views, and that leads me to believing this blog is more popular than it actually is. 

Still, I need to post more. And I want to. An ever-so-small inkling tells me to. So, I'm going to. But I'm only riding a few times per week, so I'll have to delve into adventures other than the ones that include two wheels and headwinds. I have to strive to impress my audience of Google Bots, after all :P

As for the title? We'll still call this thing Perpetual Motion, though at times "Inconsistent Motion Sprinkled with Other Stuff" may be more fitting.

Going Above and Beyond

I feel like I'm a pretty good co-worker.

I know that Dan in the warehouse will giddily ask me on a Monday morning, "So what'd ya think of that shot on 18? Can you believe how far it rolled back? How 'bout that birdie on nine?!" I'll respond excitedly with some tidbit of knowledge that I caught on the morning radio show during my bleary post-weekend commute. A tidbit, yes. Like a lighted match in an endless black tunnel that is the world of golf. He'll walk away happy. I'll smile. A feather in my cap.

I'll walk up front, and the office ladies will be celebrating the Pirates' latest home win. Some'll be wearing their number 22 "Cutch" jerseys, but all of them no doubt re-enacting the home run Alvarez hit in the 7th. That's right, he hit a homer in the 7th, and I'm right on top of it. I'll re-enact it myself, and I didn't even see it. Hell, I don't even know what Alvarez looks like. I'll bat a crumpled invoice over the array of snacks on top of the filing cabinets; the Chex-Mix making a perfect warning track. The ladies'll cheer. I'll jog around the printers. Two feathers earned - I'll hang up my imaginary cap and sit down at my desk.

All in all, I really do have interest in my co-workers' interests, because there's nothing worse than going to work excited about something and then having no one to share that excitement with. But, I can't catch 100% of everything, so I do my best.

Things will be different tomorrow, though.

My younger brother has been blowing up my phone about this evening's premiere of "Sharknado" on SyFy. I had thought about watching some of it, then decided to instead write a quick blog about not watching it. I should be in the dark on this one. No tidbits of knowledge. No lighted match in a black tunnel. No visions in my head of tidbits of likely Sharknado victims. Nothing.

But, unfortunately I feel the poster below reveals approximately 85% of the plot, so maybe tomorrow won't be different after all.

Undoubtedly, Tara Reid will look like Ian Ziering circa 1996, and Ian Ziering will look like Ian Ziering circa 2034.

That's right. Enough said.

Happy soon-to-be-Friday.