When glancing through the last posts in this blog, I experience the sensation as if I discovered something I'd thought lost. Akin perhaps to finding an old box of parts stuffed under a work bench, I read through old entries as if turning over an odd foot peg or dusty mirror, marveling at the speckled patina slowly consuming the mirrored surface of the chrome and dusting away sticky strands of cobweb. The odor of old gasoline absorbed into a cardboard box triggers memories of long hours spent in the garage, worrying away some problem threatening the next day's ride. With a grease-stained rag in one hand, I wipe the grit and grime from those old parts, turning and examining each for wear. In the measured age of yesterday's parts lies the hope of the ride tomorrow.
All gypsies must come in from the road from time to time. The horse must rest and be cared for. The wanderer brings in tales of the wild places, those of open highway and wilderness as well as the view of interior places fostered by long hours in the saddle and the pulse of an engine. It is time to dust off those old parts, hold tools in the hand until metal warms to the touch, and recall the profound fortune which allows us to be vagabonds - if only for a weekend at a time.