about me

You made it this far and you want to know more about me? Okay.. Not really a fan of writing about myself. Since you are here, I will give it a go.

Hi - my name is Zachary Lindeman.

I’ve never believed in linear paths. Life doesn’t work that way — and neither do the people who tend to build the most interesting things.

I was born and raised in Northern Kentucky, just outside of Cincinnati. I grew up in a massive, loud, deeply connected family where chaos was normal and love was abundant. I have five siblings, and both of my parents are one of twelve. There was always someone around, always a story being told, always a lesson being learned — whether intentionally or not. That environment shaped me early: resilience, independence, humor under pressure, and a deep appreciation for people.

Like most kids of the ’80s, my childhood was spent outside. Bikes instead of screens. Woods instead of Wi-Fi. Long days that ended only when the streetlights came on. I played soccer seriously, gave football a very brief and ill-fated attempt, and learned early that teamwork, grit, and showing up matter more than talent alone.

My teenage and early adult years followed a familiar script — high school, college (which I hated), parties, and trying to figure out who I was supposed to become. Somewhere along the way, I was involved in a car accident that very easily could have ended my story. It wasn’t a fender-bender or a cautionary tale — it was the kind of moment that stops time, rearranges priorities, and leaves you sitting with the reality of how fragile everything actually is. I walked away changed. Not just physically, but mentally. From that point on, the idea of “someday” stopped making sense. Life doesn’t wait. Momentum matters. If you want something, you go after it — now.

Eventually, I fell into the bar, restaurant, and nightclub industry — a world I would stay in for nearly seventeen years. On the surface, it was exciting: fast-paced nights, big personalities, controlled chaos, and a sense of belonging. Beneath that, it was exhausting. Bar life is demanding in ways people don’t always see — long hours, high stress, inverted schedules, and a culture that rarely leaves room for balance or longevity.

For a long time, I convinced myself that I was fine. That this was just the cost of doing business. Until it wasn’t.

I hit a breaking point — the kind that doesn’t arrive quietly. It forces you to stop, reassess, and make a decision about the direction of your life. That moment became the catalyst for what I think of as the renaissance of my life. I walked away from a road I could no longer travel and went back to school, not because it was comfortable, but because it was necessary.

That decision changed everything.

Returning to education opened doors I didn’t even know existed. It gave me language for things I’d already been doing instinctively: problem-solving, systems thinking, leadership, and accountability. Over time, my career pivoted into technology, where I’ve worked across high-growth environments and complex systems, bringing a calm, people-first mindset shaped by years of operating under pressure. I don’t panic when things break. I don’t shy away from hard conversations. I believe good systems should serve people — not the other way around.

At the same time, another passion was taking shape.

Engine 13 Overland grew out of my love for building, travel, endurance, and living deliberately. It’s not just a van-build company — it’s a reflection of how I move through the world. I don’t design vans on a screen and walk away. I live in them. Train out of them. Break systems. Fix them. Then rebuild them better. Engine 13 exists at the intersection of engineering, experience, and lifestyle — where form follows function, and nothing is done without intention.

Endurance sport has been a defining force in my life. Training for and completing an Ironman fundamentally reshaped how I approach commitment, discipline, and discomfort. Endurance teaches you how to keep moving when quitting would be easier, how to respect preparation, and how to stay present when the outcome is uncertain. Those lessons translate everywhere — work, leadership, relationships, and building a business that can actually last.

Today, I split my time between Cincinnati and New York City. Cincinnati grounds me — it’s home, roots, and where Engine 13 was born. New York challenges me — it demands clarity, rewards effort, and doesn’t care who you think you are, only what you’re building and how you show up. Living between the two keeps me balanced and honest.

Outside of work, I’m a lifelong traveler with serious wanderlust. I’m a proud uncle, a loyal friend, and — without question — a deeply committed Doberman dad. Dogs have a way of teaching presence, loyalty, and joy better than most people ever do.

At this stage of my life, I care less about titles and more about impact. Less about noise and more about substance. I’m interested in building things that last — systems, relationships, businesses, and a life that feels aligned rather than accidental.

This blog is an extension of that philosophy. A place to document lessons learned, questions still unanswered, and the ongoing process of becoming — not arriving.

If you’re here, welcome.
Let’s see where this goes.

With Love - Z 

P.S. Over the course of my life and travels on this beautiful planet, I’ve learned a few things worth sharing.

Life is made up of choices — big ones and small ones — and every choice quietly shapes the path you’re on. Choose thoughtfully. Surround yourself with people who inspire you, challenge you, and make you better than you were yesterday. Fight for what you want, and don’t be afraid to open your heart to love.

Listen more than you speak. But don’t be afraid to speak when it matters.

And please — for all of us — don’t be the loudest person in the room. The loudest voice is rarely the strongest, and almost never the wisest.

A broken heart may be one of the hardest pains to endure. Healing takes time — sometimes far longer than you expect. But you will get through it, even when it feels impossible. Grief, in all its forms, leaves a mark. I lost my mother to breast cancer in 2016, and the pain never fully disappears. You don’t “get over” a loss like that — you learn how to carry it.

Falling down hurts. A lot. But getting back up — choosing to keep going, to chase your dreams, and to work toward the life you want — that might be one of the best feelings there is. Reach higher than you think you should. You may be surprised by what you’re capable of.

P.P.S. If you’re curious, read my post about my first Ironman 70.3. It might just change how you see limits — and what’s possible beyond them.

Born and raised in Cincinnati, Zachary splits his time between New York City, Cincinnati, and wherever the road less traveled leads.

All photos by Zachary [unless noted].