Speedy, efficient, effective. A purpose-built machine that has one objective: clean the floor. Kind of ugly, but in a cute way. These are sentences that describe you, Clarke Scrubber.

My mom told me, “Cleanliness is a virtue,” and I never understood the depth of that statement until you showed me the difference a shiny floor can make to my mental health. In just a few minutes, the dusty, dingy dance floor became instead a shiny, buff, even sparkling, dance floor.

Reset. Breathe in. Everything will be okay now.

I’m sure the dancers can feel that wave of clean pass over them too, a cool breeze providing brief refuge from the monotony of their stand, if only for a minute. Then, free to move about such a smooth and spotless surface, I can only imagine they feel like they’re walking on air. This is the power you have, Clarke scrubber.

Awestruck by your admittedly uninspired exterior, I vowed I’d learn everything I could about you by the end of the night, Clarke scrubber. Well, there wasn’t much to know, but I discovered your beginnings as a humble orbital sander. You were made for so much more than rough material removal, and I’m glad that in 1946, you were given the opportunity to buff floors, buffing the hearts of America in the process.

Watching you go up, then back, and up, then back again across the floor was a true spectacle. Not a single speck of dust left in your wake, you unapologetically wipe everything away. Good, bad, it doesn’t matter, and that’s okay. What matters is the pristine surface created by your efforts. True clean.

And like an angel’s kiss gone into the wind, you too disappear into the depths of the BJC and leave me awaiting your return.

An unsung hero of THON, I will shout your praises. From your sleek plastic cover to your exposed rotors and seat that is probably too small for even the smallest of riders to be comfortable, you were built for a noble purpose. This weekend, Clarke Scrubber, your performance is truly that of legend.