Because the '71 Bonny is still undergoing refurbishment and the rain let up, I rode the '51 Pan-Shovel down the canyon and across the Rio Grande to buy avocados for dinner. A young girl bagging the fruit looked at my leathers, the gauntlet gloves tucked into my belt, and my dusty boots:
"What kind of bike do you ride?"
"A 73-year-old Harley." She stared at me, slack-jawed, and blinked.
"Well," I added, "my 53-year-old Triumph is currently on the stand."
She screwed up her face. "Why don't you get a new one?"
I looked at the line forming behind me. "It'd take a while to explain," I said, smiling at her, and headed for the door.
For anyone visiting this forum, the above will be a familiar sort of exchange--and I've read a fair amount about and tried to explain precisely why anyone would forgo a fuel-injected, computerized, near-zero maintenance wonder for a snorting, shivering machine which one has to kick to awaken, wrestle like a marauding bull, and massage at regular intervals (often with both hands) to keep happy.
But this evening I was rereading Emerson, "Man the Reformer," to flesh out a scene for my forthcoming, second novel "The Knight of Central Park," and ran across this passage--which I now wish I'd put to memory, if only to further confound the fugitive from high school manning the conveyor belt at Albertsons:
"...every man ought to stand in primary relations with the work of the world, ought to do it himself, and ought not to suffer the accident of having a purse in his pocket, or his having been bred to some dishonorable and injurious craft, to sever him from those duties; and for this reason, that labor is God's education; that he only is a sincere learner, he only can become a master, who learns the secrets of labor, and who by real cunning extorts from nature its scepter."
So, verily I say unto you, my wrench-turning Meriden brethren:
"What kind of bike do you ride?"
"A 73-year-old Harley." She stared at me, slack-jawed, and blinked.
"Well," I added, "my 53-year-old Triumph is currently on the stand."
She screwed up her face. "Why don't you get a new one?"
I looked at the line forming behind me. "It'd take a while to explain," I said, smiling at her, and headed for the door.
For anyone visiting this forum, the above will be a familiar sort of exchange--and I've read a fair amount about and tried to explain precisely why anyone would forgo a fuel-injected, computerized, near-zero maintenance wonder for a snorting, shivering machine which one has to kick to awaken, wrestle like a marauding bull, and massage at regular intervals (often with both hands) to keep happy.
But this evening I was rereading Emerson, "Man the Reformer," to flesh out a scene for my forthcoming, second novel "The Knight of Central Park," and ran across this passage--which I now wish I'd put to memory, if only to further confound the fugitive from high school manning the conveyor belt at Albertsons:
"...every man ought to stand in primary relations with the work of the world, ought to do it himself, and ought not to suffer the accident of having a purse in his pocket, or his having been bred to some dishonorable and injurious craft, to sever him from those duties; and for this reason, that labor is God's education; that he only is a sincere learner, he only can become a master, who learns the secrets of labor, and who by real cunning extorts from nature its scepter."
So, verily I say unto you, my wrench-turning Meriden brethren:
GO NOT QUIETLY
Go not quietly into the dark, but
Beat the drum and ride the beast as you will,
Wring it out and lean hard into the wind,
Lest your final faltering breath awaken
Neither memories nor dreams
Of a moonlit road breathlessly taken.
©2024, Joel Matthew Young
Go not quietly into the dark, but
Beat the drum and ride the beast as you will,
Wring it out and lean hard into the wind,
Lest your final faltering breath awaken
Neither memories nor dreams
Of a moonlit road breathlessly taken.
©2024, Joel Matthew Young
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