Some days, life throws you something unexpected. Not the bad kind—no flat tires, no missed deadlines, no forgotten lunch. I’m talking about those weird, wonderful curveballs that just make you stop and go, “Well, that was something.”

This week, mine came in the form of a motorcycle.

The Man With the Sidecar

I’m out front of the building—our building. The beast I’ve been living with for months now. Level 4 has been open for a while, humming along like a hive of bees. It’s a constant churn of people coming in, getting their eyeballs worked on, and heading home. Quick surgeries, fast turnarounds. You don’t exactly stick around after someone’s lasered your corneas. The rule is: you don’t drive yourself home. Someone has to pick you up. Makes sense.

So there I am, doing my thing, and I spot this motorcycle parked in the lot. And not just any motorcycle. This thing is an Indian, fully decked out, gleaming in the sun like a chrome trophy. And it’s got a sidecar. A damn sidecar. I haven’t seen one of those in person since I was a kid watching cartoons where dogs wore goggles.

Naturally, I wander over. I’m eyeing it like I’ve just fallen in love, and out walks this older guy in a leather jacket. Of course I assume it’s his bike—it fits too perfectly.

We strike up a conversation. Turns out, this dude is exactly the kind of guy you hope owns a sidecar motorcycle. He tells me he’s got a garage full of busted old Harleys, how he’s an “Indian man” through and through, and how he can’t really hold up a bike anymore. Balance is gone. That’s why he needs the sidecar. Oh—and his dog rides shotgun. Picture that. Old biker, leather jacket, loyal dog in the sidecar, both of them cruising like kings of the road.

We talk for fifteen minutes, easy. Just two guys, bonding over steel, grease, and the way machines somehow outlast people. Then he throws a leg over that bike, fires it up, and takes off.

And here’s the kicker: this man had just had eye surgery. The kind where they tell you not to drive. This guy can barely balance a bike, and there he goes, roaring out of the lot like it’s nothing.

I just stood there thinking, “You know what? Maybe rules aren’t for everyone.”

And damn if he didn’t light up my whole day. Some people are like that—brief encounters that burn a little brighter than the rest of your routine. They remind you life isn’t just drywall dust, fire alarm inspections, and paperwork. Sometimes, it’s sidecars and stubborn old bikers who do whatever the hell they want.

Building Life

Meanwhile, back inside the reality show that is my day-to-day, things are chaos. Level 3 is almost done. Almost. Which means we’re doing the contractor’s version of juggling chainsaws. Fire alarm verification. Clients moving in while we’re still caulking trim. Door readers that don’t want to read. Networking that makes no sense because IT always finds a way to complicate things. City inspectors breathing down our necks. It’s a party, let me tell you.

And if that wasn’t enough, the first-floor project—FYI Doctors—is sliding into its finishing stages. Because why not pile it on? You don’t get one fire to put out in construction, you get five, all burning at once, and the fire department wants a certificate of occupancy by Friday.

Tomorrow, though, my buddy Ethan is finally back. The kid’s been gone two and a half weeks, off in Brazil on a church mission trip. I’m not sure exactly what he was building down there—probably houses or schools—but I know what he wasn’t building: walls on Level 3. I’ve noticed. I missed the hell out of him. He’s a good kid. Hard worker. And tomorrow, when he’s back by my side, we’re going to slam this project shut.

Running Against the Season

Now let’s pivot to me. I made a commitment—250 kilometers this month. I didn’t whisper it. I didn’t quietly jot it down on a sticky note. I threw it out on social media, because I know myself. Accountability. Public shame is a hell of a motivator.

ChatGPT even told me maybe I should start smaller. Reasonable. Conservative. Screw that. I’m not here for “reasonable.” I’m here to push. Aim big, gain big.

We’re September 3 today. I’m sitting at 28.3 kilometers. That’s two 10.5K runs plus a couple short evening leg-loosener runs. The math says I need 8.6 kilometers a day to hit 250, but the math also says you should take rest days. And math doesn’t run my life.

September’s always a tricky month for me. The air changes. The light feels different. It’s the reminder that summer’s over and winter’s lurking around the corner. And I hate winter. I’ve got SAD—Seasonal Affective Disorder. I know the signs. I know the drill. October’s manageable, November’s gray, December and January are like slogging through a swamp of ice and exhaustion. By February, I start to see cracks of light, March is hopeful, April’s basically a celebration.

So yeah—September? It’s the gateway drug to the months that mess me up. Which means I fight harder now. I run harder. I train harder. Because when the days get shorter and the nights get longer, I need something in me that isn’t just caffeine and complaints.

And if I’m being honest? I don’t want to be the grumpy guy. I don’t want to be the dad snapping over stupid things, the husband sulking because of nothing, the guy who’s just angry for no reason. That anger—it comes from somewhere deeper. I don’t need to dissect it. I just need to outrun it.

In a Nutshell

So here we are. Episode 15. A random biker reminded me that some rules are optional. Work is chaos but wrapping up. Ethan’s coming back. I’m chasing 250 kilometers. And I’m bracing myself for the season that always tests me.

But I’ll say this: I’m not backing down. Not this time. If September wants to take a swing at me, I’m swinging back—with a sidecar, a pair of running shoes, and a stubborn streak a mile wide.