Wednesday, January 31, 2007
on a road to the sky
The clustered clamoring metallic madding crowd miraculously parts and there is nothing before you but clear open lanes as far as you can see; suddenly you are rocketing down the highway into a bright winter morning feeling every subtle twist and curve sure of yourself and your machine forgetting in that moment your destination is to labor in the salt mines of tedium; you are Lindbergh, Earhart, Skywalker; you are flying.
I live for moments like this. Sure, the old cantankerous claptrap (thank you Dr. Smith) is a fickle and vexing mechanical menace, but when she’s happy we’re both happy, few and far between though those times may be. This morning she took to the road with a throaty growl and an athletic enthusiasm. Please excuse me now while I rap my knuckles on every immediately available piece of wood.
I live for moments like this. Sure, the old cantankerous claptrap (thank you Dr. Smith) is a fickle and vexing mechanical menace, but when she’s happy we’re both happy, few and far between though those times may be. This morning she took to the road with a throaty growl and an athletic enthusiasm. Please excuse me now while I rap my knuckles on every immediately available piece of wood.
