October 21, 2010
The last time I revved up the Big Chief scooter, its BP-laced belches filled the neighborhood with the stink of sluggish motor oil. That was several weeks ago, despite this string of near-perfect fall days that should have been beckoning me to don my helmet and leathers.
What once was my scooter's sin of emission has devolved into my own sin of omission.
I much prefer the old-fashioned sins of my youth, the ones for which I was fully present, committing them with both elan and awareness. While I certainly continue to do knuckleheaded things in my middle ages, it is the things that I've left on the roadside that really bring out the ache.
It's the things that sit in my proverbial shed, the ones now gathering dust, that haunt me the most. Like a ghost, these things barely register on my radar anymore, making me doubt that they ever really existed in my life at all.
Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been nearly two months since I fired all 49 ccs and I should miss them very much, thank you.
I suppose "sins of omission" is really code for "regret" or "nostalgia." It's the reason we get so excited when we here the opening wails of "Emergency" on the Retro TV channel, or fawn over a copy of "Goodnight Moon" at someone's garage sale. We're reminded of what we once held onto so tightly. And we're faced with what we seem to have let go.
I need this Fall Break that wags itself in front of me. I need it for its reconnecting powers, for the way I imagine it will open up the doors of my shed and let loose all the things I have overlooked for so long. I need it for the breeze that longs to jar loose my tears as I rumble up J Street on my mighty Big Chief.
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