How often in life does something potentially great turn out to be just as great as you'd hoped? If you're honest, probably not that often. Love, if you're lucky. The occasional recipe. That time in New York. The exceptions are memorable, and we frame them in our minds to hang in a prominent spot at the edge of our worldview so we're constantly reminded that it can happen.
That's what this last six months has been like for me and Scrammy. Granted, being of a certain age and of modest sportiness, I didn't go into this new adventure expecting the moon. But still, every mile has been a grin-inducing party. Every mile, including the freezing cold trip to the dealer this morning, a crystalline late fall dawn with frost on the ground and a view that went forever. And now it's over. The Triumph got its annual service today, which included preparing it for storage. At least at the farm, we're done for the season.
I wasn't prepared to be so sentimental about it, but it's ended up feeling almost like some kind of rehearsal for mortality. The lady at the gas station actually offered condolences, without a trace of irony, when I explained why I was topping off the tank. The months ahead seem to stretch indefinitely, a little like the road I turned off this morning to get home, instead of rolling on the throttle like every fiber of my being wanted me to do. As with everything in life, intensity has a price, if you want to survive it.
I still have to clean Scrammy up and install a battery tender before the cover goes on for the last time. My magazine subscriptions are updated, and I'm going to start thinking about projects and goals for next year right now, just like I did last fall. We'll make next year even better, if fate will allow me to be a little greedy this time around. In the meantime, just in case those nondualists are right, I thanked him before closing the garage door. You never know.
