Something to write

It's 10:20 on Tuesday night.

I'm pretty certain this is the first time in a good bit that I've been able to sit down, take a long deep breath and write something.

I've actually been dying to write something.

But I'm not sure what to write about. And I have to get up a little earlier tomorrow to drive out to Mansfield, Ohio. I look up and over the top of my MacBook. The Sandman is sitting across from me, pointing at his watch.

I look back down. Battery life is 34%, and the charger's in my car.

Some writer's block going on here. A lot of things happened within the last month, so I don't think my problem is content.

I think about Nova Scotia. That happened.

Ryanne and I are descending French Mountain. A single yellow line on the road catches the lightning and illuminates below me. It turns to two with the following rumble of thunder. I wonder aloud, "Did we leave the the snow shelter too soon?" I wave Ryanne to get ahead, and her taillight burns through the fog as she passes. She gets ten feet in front of me and disappears. The rain pelts my face and a van full of Japanese tourists hug the berm to my left, climbing- hoping to emerge from the nothingness we are giving ourselves up to. They wave. I hold on.

It's 10:45, now. Nova Scotia deserves a little more time.

26% battery.

Ian and I were asked to shoot the Anthropologie Fall Fashion Show in the South Hills. That also happened. I need more practice taking photos of things that move.

Definitely writer's block. And my blogger-reader-thing is getting updated daily with literally almost nothing. So, I think whatever I have is going around. That, or summers have been super busy.

But for now, it's time to get my shit together and think of something to write.

Don't Look Back

I'm walking up the road to my house after taking a few shots of a Seven Fields sunset.

How they'll turn out? I'm not sure. It was getting a little too dark, and I had to wait for a bunch of walkers to pass by my field of view. Probably not usable, but it was a well-thought attempt.

It's a nice night, and Hillvue Drive is quiet. The slight grade to my house has always been a good little sprinter after a long road ride. A faint smell of petroleum from my neighbor's freshly-asphalted driveway still lingers.

Maybe it's best the photos don't turn out. I'm only so good with Lightroom, and a Seven Fields sunset isn't the best to begin with. But, it is one I've known for eight years. Ryanne and I leave for Nova Scotia tomorrow after work, and a week after we return, we're closing on our new house.

I keep walking. A piddling limp remains in my left leg - a sure result of too much party at Single Speed USA. Reality sets in. These photos are no good. I format the SD card, without missing a hobbled step. I sling the camera around my back as the card writes to zeroes. 

I moved into our townhouse about six months before we got married in 2006. The time really has gone by, and this place has definitely held its own place in my heart. But, things have changed, and we've changed, too. It's still a great, great neighborhood to be in, but I'll be carrying many great, great memories out of it.

Last night, Ryanne and I joined Ian and his lovely lady to see The Moth at the Byham in Pittsburgh. True stories told live. No notes. Just emotion. The theme for the evening was Don't Look Back.

I reach my little driveway, and I look back. My Fuji swings around, and I half-hold it up, hoping for a chance at one more shot. The sun's down, and I let go. The Japanese device caught by Wisconsin leather. I open my door, knowing I have an empty card ready to be filled when the sun comes up, somewhere else.

Old. I think.

A couple Sundays ago, Ryanne and I went to look at some antiques.

We scored a few things, including this backbreaker:

At first we thought it was a bookshelf. But then we noticed the drawer behind some paintings that were leaning against it. So we settled on it being a china cabinet, despite its serious lack of cabinetry.

It's supposed to be from the New England area and was apparently found in a church basement. I'm not sure if that's true. But I did spend a little time trying to figure out how old it is. 

Pretty much any furniture built in America before 1870 used handmade dovetail joints in drawer construction. Machining wasn't well-developed enough at the time to replicate it.

Sweet huh?

But things change. And most furniture made between 1870 and 1900 used a Knapp joint. This was machine-made and looks much different than the dovetail.

Although in 1900, machining came around to the point where the dovetail could be replicated and mass produced. There wasn't anything wrong with the Knapp. People just wanted their furniture to look like older handmade furniture - even though it was going to be built with machines.

So, people were dumb back then, too.

But anyway - seeing my drawer doesn't have a Knapp joint, I can rule out 1870-1900. And I know for sure this thing isn't from around the Civil War era. Twentieth century, it is.

There are two slotted screws in it. They hold the drawer hardware in place. Phillips-head screws are relatively new, so that would have pointed to it being mid 1940's or later.

Slotted-head screws can be really old, but most screws were at least partially machined by the mid-1800's, so it's tough to identify them. Mine are pretty dull and the threads are inconsistent, so they're somewhat old.

I think.

I'm guessing 1910's to 1930's. Although when I'm 85 years old and half-crippled with blown out knees, this thing will probably fall on me, and in my final moments I'll see a made in China sticker on the bottom side.

The paint on it is in pretty good shape, though. There are definitely some scratches and blemishes, especially on the top of the two shelves. But, who cares? The only treatment it'll probably get is a little Pledge.

The world could use a little more imperfection.

And it'll start in my kitchen...

Or bedroom.

I just need to decide if it's a bookshelf or china cabinet, first.

Dribble Dribble

The summer in Western PA has been pretty wet.

Getting home from work when it's still 95 degrees and 100% humidity has been a drag. The three hills that climb out the back of my neighborhood have also been a drag.

Last week, I felt ambitious in the heat.

I open my basement door and roll my El Mariachi out. The sticky swelter winds up and punches me in the face. My contacts get displaced. My pores open up. I rub my eyes with gloves still unwashed from my last few rides at Kennerdell. The smell of glory and creek water invade my nostrils. It stinks.

I shut the door and leave behind a safe haven of air conditioning and unlimited Internet access. I nearly trip on something on the back patio.

"Shit." Looks like a raccoon got into the garbage.

Just kidding. That didn't happen until a few days later.

: /

I begin the first climb out. The pores are still open. I start to welcome distractions.

To my right, there's a roofer laying shingles, baking in the heat. Another random guy is standing next to him, just watching him cook. He looks down at me like I'm a dumbass. In this moment, he's probably right.

I lift up my wool cap to let some air in.

To my left, a middle-aged guy accepts Pizza Hut delivery. With a wide, unnatural kinky-like grin on his face, he grips the steaming box and quickly shuts his front door. He knows the only thing separating him and meat lovers delight is a quick volume adjust on DVR'ed Pawn Stars.

The 18 year-old delivery driver retreats to his own air conditioned vessel. He shuts the car door and hurriedly catches up on the barrage of text messages received during his two-minute mission.

I smell something good. Something's cooking. It's either the pizza or that roofer finally succumbed to the broil. I look back to see. Can't see through the haze. I assume he's still with us.

The pores are pouring.

I'm halfway up the last hill. I hear a ball bouncing a short distance away. Dribble dribble. There's a kid I always see playing basketball. His house is at the top of the hill. Dribble dribble. He's small. Probably six or seven. Dribble. A car rolls past me, but I don't hear it. All I hear is the ball bouncing up and down. Faster. Quicker. Mini dribbles coming from his mini body. The hill pitches up. I'm too tired to steer around the drainage grate. Rumble rumble. My wide tires roll over it. Dribble dribble. My heart beat matches the cadence of the bouncing. I get to the end of his driveway. The ball looks like it'd be too big for Scottie Pippen. The dribbling stops. He tosses up a fast lay-up. Braang! The ball hits the bottom of the rim, and bounces back and hits him in the head. He falls over.

I stop. I'm a few feet from the top of the hill. I ask him if he's OK. He gets up and nods his head. I contemplate a quick downhill back to my house. The heat weighs on me. I wipe my forehead. I imagine Pizza Hut on my table. I think about Rick and Chumlee.

I clip in, about to do a 180 toward the bottom.

And then, dribble dribble. 

The kid's back at it. I loop around and crest the hill, continuing on in the fever. Ahead of me, warm motivation. Behind? More dribble dribble.

-This past weekend was nice, though. Pretty mild and sunny. And the extra day off was great.

Ryanne and I did some hiking / hill sprinting / trail jogging in the woods. We did 12 miles on Friday, then another 14 on Saturday.

On Sunday, we rode mountain bikes together for the first time in a long time.

This morning, I drove to the Y before heading into work. My leg was aching just pushing the clutch in. I was smoked after two workouts. I was never so eager to get to the locker room and jump in the steam room with a bunch of old guys.

Most of these photos were already posted to the Face.  Sorry for the rehash. The pixels look better here.

Stoutheartedness

Ryanne started Race Across America last Saturday. The week has gone by so quickly.

For me, anyway.

As for her, I can imagine it's going a little slower. But, she only has a couple days of riding left. After which, two years worth of preparations will culminate and come to a close. I'm sure she'll be relieved.

As she set off last weekend, I set off on my own adventure in the woods.

Saturday night found a cool chill and a slow-setting sun.

The crowd was small. The fire was large. The laughs were aplenty. Hours passed.

The sun, long-since set. The moon was bright and peerless. My lungs were filled with an unearthly air.

The trees stood taller that night.

Hazes of semi-befuddlement burnished our faces. They, brought to us by the satiation of nightly spirits and food cooked over the glowing pit that drew us together.

I pulled my Marmot out of its sack and its loft breathed in the air of dying embers. As the fill came alive, I clambered inside, and it warmed me to unconsciousness.

Stoutheartedness would come in the morning.

Happenings

Jimmy got married a few weeks ago.

The wedding was a bunch of fun.

Now he's on a three to four week honeymoon in Thailand and Australia.

Ryan and Jessica got married last weekend. Could I be more happy for them? Probably not.

I've been working extra hard to lose the winter spring weight I put on devouring everything in sight at every celebratory event. And by working extra hard, I mean sitting on my computer working on some website stuff for work. And drinking beer. And eating a crap load of Mexican. And now, blogging.

Ryanne and I did go hiking at Moraine, though.

I brought my camera and pretended to be the creepster-type-guy who takes photos of people riding on the paved bike path.

Ryanne didn't notice, so I stopped pretending.

She just danced to Kanye the entire way to the marina.

We spent Memorial Day at my parents making a bunch of food and enjoying the company of some family friends and my wonderful Aunt and Uncle.

My dad and his younger sister relived their childhood playing Jacks.

Joey and I relived every day at work.

Face to face with the Fab Four, then shoved to the ground with little effort.

Kind of embarrassing, but I probably deserve it after many mid-90's winters, tag-teaming him in the snow with Ian. I have vivid memories of him falling victim to the Triple Threat of me, Ian, and The Blizzard of '93.

Yeah. Definitely deserved.

I've been running almost every morning. I'm still a really, really, really bad runner. But, combining my minimal improvement and spotty self-confidence, I've decided I'm going to sign up for a marathon this fall.

I expect to hurt more than I ever have on a bicycle. But, I want to know what it feels like.