Sometime last week, I was closing out the cash register at Franktuary when the phone rang. I’m never sure whether to answer after hours, given the amount of hang-ups and sales calls we field while we are open, but this particular day I answered the phone.

A gentleman on the end of the line asks me if we sell Natrona Bottling Company sodas. I am proud to tell him that we do. He asks me what flavors we have. I list them off. He asks me where we are located. I tell him. He’s in the Strip District and wants to know how long it will take him to get to the shoppe. Well, I’m not sure where he is, but I figure this is a good time to mention that we have now been closed for about half an hour.

Sad silence. He is sad. I am sad. Geez, the guy just wants some locally bottled soda.

Then I have a brilliant idea.

“Sir,” I say, because it is polite to be extra polite to strangers, “I will be biking right through the Strip District in approximately 15 minutes. Where exactly are you located?” He figures out which intersection, chooses 3 Cherry and 3 Mint Julep for his six pack, and says he’ll see me. “At Fifteenth and Penn.” And he has cash.

So I finish closing, toss his six pack in my back crate, and wonder as I pedal whether I will actually see this guy, until I pull up to 15th and Penn and he is leaning sheepishly against a light post, looking as if he is wondering whether he’ll actually see the hot dog shop girl on a bicycle. I dismount on the other side of the street and cross over to him.

He has a vague New Jersey/NY accent, and he is thrilled, slightly embarrassed and laughing. “I feel like this is a drug deal!” So do I. “This is incredible, I can’t believe this worked!” Me too. The package changes hands with a warning to give the bottles some time before opening – they have been thoroughly bike-bounced along a road known for Pittsburgh’s worst pot holes. The money changes hands, plus a menu and some coupons in case he can visit us during store hours, plus a tip. We shake hands. His name is Ronnie, and as a silver Mini Cooper pulls up to the intersection, he leans in and tells me, “You saved my marriage!”

Then Ronnie gets in on the passenger side, waves, and is carried off, sodas resting gently on his lap.

Here in Pittsburgh, you hear about an event called Critical Mass fairly regularly. On the last Friday evening of each month cyclists from around the city converge to form one humongous wall of pedaling power. When I first heard about the concept, I was intrigued. However, once I thought about it I felt differently.

By its very nature a CM ride sounds like tons of fun if you’re someone who enjoys cycling. The camaradarie, the cool breezes, the power… it all sounds great. Honestly, I’d like to participate sometime, but I’m too aware that the public road system is a tool for transportation as opposed to my personal playground.

You see, the trouble is that if you’re a motorist CM doesn’t sound great at all. I’ve seen more than one ride cause all of Penn Avenue, outside of my apartment, to be completely blocked off so that no car can pass. From behind the wheel, this has to be frustrating. These riders travel well below the speed limit and, whether or not the cyclist is prone to admit it, people in motorized vehicles may have important places to go. Furthermore, a driver cannot reasonably anticipate and plan for several hundred cyclists to cause him to be delayed.

Now comes news that this past Friday a motorist actually intentionally hit a cyclist during a CM ride. She was probably completely innocent as an individual, but as part of a larger body she was almost definitely creating a significant traffic jam. Of course, this in no way justifies the actions of someone in a car who chooses to strike someone on a bicycle. With increasing frequency I hear about cyclist versus motorist conflict in Pittsburgh and I plead with both parties to use common sense and share the road.

As someone who considers himself both a motorist and a cyclist what I know is this. It scares the living pants off me when I’m on my bike and an overzealous bus driver appears to swerve intentionally toward me for no other reason than to send a message as he passes by. It also frustrates the living pants right back onto me when I’m in my car and I’m stuck in traffic for no good reason. Traffic jams are part of life, but there’s no need to create more than what we already deal with by way of accidents and construction.

In closing, when traveling below the speed limit, no matter in how great a number, always attempt to allow room for faster vehicles to pass. Additionally, under no circumstances is it ever acceptable to attempt to make contact with another moving object on the road. It’s that simple.

I’m now stepping off my soap box. Thank you.

And we’re back after a slightly extended pause. Today’s entry, in three stanzas, is dedicated to numbers.

1) Why is it that when I type the phrase “Feb 07″ into a specific worksheet in Microsoft Excel and then strike the enter key that very same cell reads “39,120″? This really happens. I don’t understand. The cell in question is not linked to anything else.

2) According to the inscription on the 16th Street Bridge, it was built in MDCCCCXXIII.

3) (Word Problem – Interdisciplinary): If Tim leaves his house on his bike at 8:19 am and Megan starts walking to the bus stop at 7:36 am, which proprietor will have the coffee ready for John by 8:31am? How much will John be charged for said caffeinated beverage? Please include State and Local Sales Tax in your answer.

Unbeknown to me until today, we are in the homestretch of National Bike to Work Week. I suppose it doesn’t matter much, because in the world of Tim every week is bike to work week.

Ironically, the parking garage across the street from my store is full today. How about that?

I recall being in Japan and riding a bike to a train station, then getting off the train and walking into a giant bike garage. From there I would take another bike to my destination. It was splendid.

Perhaps what this country needs is bike garages. Okay, thanks (for reading).

Hello friend. Yesterday I had three meetings in the afternoon. That’s not supposed to happen when you own a hot dog shoppe.

It’s finally cold. It feels like winter. My fingers are numb when on my bike, and given the date, I’m somewhat relieved.

By the way, we’re now offering pierogies. If pierogies were popular anywhere in the United States other than Pittsburgh I think it would be just splendid to open a stand in New York’s South Street Seaport and call it “Pier 17 Pierogies.” I also think it would be mighty fine if Pier 1 Imports sold pierogies in all their stores, somewhere near the checkout.

But, alas, pierogies appear not to be very marketable outside of the Steel City. Of course, as a non-native of western PA I say “alas” more for the loss of opportunity to employ a cheesey play on words than for the opportunity to eat a cheesey pierogi in Manhattan. Don’t get me wrong, they’re not bad, I’ve just never been sure what all the fuss is about.

I biked about 20 miles yesterday. I don’t believe I’ve ever done that before.

That should be good for at least five extra frankfurters this week i think…

I think my handlebar mustache is so manly that it’s causing the remaining whiskers on my face to actually grow at a faster rate. Someone left a bike helmet in my car so lately I’ve been wearing it when I drive the old Windstar.

To celebrate these exciting realities, I give you The Senile Journey, Episode 9 of 11.

Getting back to the topic of bicycles…

In the early 1990s I was riding my bike through the woods with a friend when we came across a lawnmower. My friend thought he might build a go-kart with the motor. He inspected it. He pulled the rip cord. He thought he might take it with him. We probably stood there for two or three full minutes.

Then, we turned around and discovered a man, sitting in the trees, staring at us. We asked if the lawnmower belonged to him. He responded affirmatively. We thought he might want to lawnmow us. We biked away as fast as we could.

Now I’m making a delivery.

Yesterday on my bike ride home I met a guy named Drew. Drew rides his bike to work too. He lives 12 blocks past where I call home.

We’d seen each other in passing many times before, but this time we ended up saying hello. We’re not very similar bike riders, but we traveled together until I reached my apartment.

Drew wears a helmet, but it’s not a normal bike helmet. It’s more of a hybrid between a combat helmet and a hockey helmet. It looks ancient. I don’t wear a helmet at all. I think feeling the wind in your hair is one of the very best parts of riding a bike. Unless I plan on doing stunt work, I’m perfectly willing to take my chances on a bike without a helmet.

I think Drew’s legs move about six times faster than mine do when we travel at the same speed on our bikes. He rubber bands the pant leg near his bike chain and I definitely don’t do that. He has a big orange milk crate attached to the back of his bike, and it’s always empty. He never seems to carry anything on his person, either. I have no devices designed to tote anything around on my bike, but I almost always have a heavy bag on my back while I ride. We both have facial hair.

Isn’t that nice? The ride reminded me of a simpler time when I had no facial hair. A time when I’d bike around my hometown with my friends on a regular basis. I would bike with this one friend, Matt, way more often than anyone else. Sometimes we would bike to school together, but mostly we would ride to our favorite ice cream shop, Magic Fountain. What a great thing to have done. Of course, I use the word “great” to describe the concept of riding a bike and eating ice cream. I’m not so sure going to school fits that description. Anyway, thanks for the memories, Drew.

Well, today has not been at all what I expected.

First, my bun guy couldn’t get downtown because of the parade, so at about 11:15 I booked it down to Restaurant Depot on my bike. I made it there and back in less than 30 minutes, and thankfully we ended up with buns for everyone (who wanted one)!

Then, as I was making an order, a man named Larry asked me what part of New Jersey I was from. He knew I was from New Jersey because today I happen to be wearing a green hoodie that reads “JERSEY PRIDE” across its back. It’s my all-time favorite article of clothing.

I told Larry I grew up in a town called Summit, and he responded that until two years ago he lived in nearby Maplewood. Now Larry lives in Squirrel Hill, and I live in the Strip District.

Anyway, we got to talking and he mentioned that he works for the Pittsburgh Symphony. I mentioned that I just saw the Pittsburgh Youth Symphony give a free concert and that I’d like to go to more classical performances, but that my budget is a fairly limited one these days.

So, we got to talking more and it came up that I used to play in the New Jersey Youth Symphony. Turns out that his son Jack, who is two years younger than me, did as well. Turns out I remember Jack because we were in the same chamber orchestra when I was in the sixth grade. I played the viola and he played the cello. Jack, considering his age advantage, was better than me.

In any case, Jack graduated from the University of Chicago last year. I gave Larry my card and told him to say hello to Jack for me. After that, Larry told me that I could go see the Pittsburgh Symphony as his guest sometime. He gave me his card. Turns out he’s President and CEO of the entire orchestra.

Later in the day I cut up a kielbasa and a knockwurst into bite size pieces for a man from Washington DC. I served these pieces to him without a bun. I gave them to him in a bowl with some chili and cheese. He tipped me with a t-shirt that reads “THE BIG GAME, FEBRUARY 5, 2006, DETROIT, MICHIGAN.” Aside from a large “XL” in the background it says nothing else.

Quite a day, wouldn’t you say! 45.