Health on the Highway
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I pick up new hobbies… I put them down… I revisit them from time to time. You catch my drift… or maybe you don’t, and that’s okay. The only through line is that the road is always callin’.
Lately, though, the roads been telling me I can’t live on pretzel jello and gas station lager forever. There comes a time when you look in the rearview and realize the body is less like a classic muscle car and more like a 2007 Dodge Caliber with a sticky caliper and an unidentified rattle under the floorboards. You gotta maintain the vehicle if you want it to keep taking you down the turnpike.
So, I picked up the bench. The weight bench.
And because pressing cold iron in a humid garage didn't feel like enough punishment, I went out and bought a mountain bike.
Speaking of heat and punishment, what in the world is the deal with Christmas in July?
I drove through a neighborhood near Sewickley yesterday... nearly 100 degrees out, humidity thick enough to slice w a butter knife and some guy had an eight-foot inflatable Santa standing next to a plastic flamingo on his front lawn. Except it wasn't standing. It was two in the afternoon, so the little motor was off, and Santa was just lying face down in the crabgrass like a discarded trash bag.
That’s the thing nobody mentions about these giant yard inflatables. I’m a classic man, I prefer decor with real wood and hard plastic, built sturdy enough that you could practically jump in and ride the replica of Santa’s sleigh sitting in your yard like you were hauling across the Alaskan tundra. For twelve hours a day, these inflatables don't look festive at all. They look like a crime scene. You got a deflated Frosty the Snowman spread-eagled on the mulch, looking like he owes money to the wrong people. Just a crumpled, lifeless heap of nylon staring up at the hot sun, waiting for dusk so a tiny electric fan can blow air up its rear end and force it back into some kind of cheerful shape.
Then you get the wind involved. If a light breeze kicks up while they’re deflated, Santa starts twitching on the lawn like he’s trying to crawl toward the porch for help. The neighbor kid rides by on his bike, doesn't even blink. Just another Tuesday in July, watching a melted, gasping Rudolph flap around in the weeds next to the air conditioner unit. It’s completely absurd.
If I wanted to see a ten-foot plastic figure collapsed on the grass, cooking in the July heat, I’d just look in the mirror after twenty minutes on the bench.
Anyway, weights are in the garage, beer's on hold, and the road keeps rolling. Keep it between the lines.
Lately, though, the roads been telling me I can’t live on pretzel jello and gas station lager forever. There comes a time when you look in the rearview and realize the body is less like a classic muscle car and more like a 2007 Dodge Caliber with a sticky caliper and an unidentified rattle under the floorboards. You gotta maintain the vehicle if you want it to keep taking you down the turnpike.
So, I picked up the bench. The weight bench.
And because pressing cold iron in a humid garage didn't feel like enough punishment, I went out and bought a mountain bike.
Speaking of heat and punishment, what in the world is the deal with Christmas in July?
I drove through a neighborhood near Sewickley yesterday... nearly 100 degrees out, humidity thick enough to slice w a butter knife and some guy had an eight-foot inflatable Santa standing next to a plastic flamingo on his front lawn. Except it wasn't standing. It was two in the afternoon, so the little motor was off, and Santa was just lying face down in the crabgrass like a discarded trash bag.
That’s the thing nobody mentions about these giant yard inflatables. I’m a classic man, I prefer decor with real wood and hard plastic, built sturdy enough that you could practically jump in and ride the replica of Santa’s sleigh sitting in your yard like you were hauling across the Alaskan tundra. For twelve hours a day, these inflatables don't look festive at all. They look like a crime scene. You got a deflated Frosty the Snowman spread-eagled on the mulch, looking like he owes money to the wrong people. Just a crumpled, lifeless heap of nylon staring up at the hot sun, waiting for dusk so a tiny electric fan can blow air up its rear end and force it back into some kind of cheerful shape.
Then you get the wind involved. If a light breeze kicks up while they’re deflated, Santa starts twitching on the lawn like he’s trying to crawl toward the porch for help. The neighbor kid rides by on his bike, doesn't even blink. Just another Tuesday in July, watching a melted, gasping Rudolph flap around in the weeds next to the air conditioner unit. It’s completely absurd.
If I wanted to see a ten-foot plastic figure collapsed on the grass, cooking in the July heat, I’d just look in the mirror after twenty minutes on the bench.
Anyway, weights are in the garage, beer's on hold, and the road keeps rolling. Keep it between the lines.