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.