As for me - hell, I know a man can love a machine; and it matters not one whit whether the machine reciprocates. How can you NOT love something that never lets you down and is always there for the rescue in the nick of time? I've heard stories of battle hardened green bean United States Fuggin Marines - the MEANEST sonsabitches on the planet and probably this entire quadrant of the galaxy - shedding tears when they had to hand in their Springfield rifles for the new M1 Garands. That was a good enough trade, apparently - but they shed tears again when they had to hand THOSE in and replace them with the new M16. They've had that rifle for 40 years now, they're STILL bitching about it and nobody is really listening. I suppose in a perfect world the Marines would develop and deploy their own anti-sonofabitch machines, right? One would think there is a certain kind of logic for having the men that wield the weapon have a hand in its design?
But sometimes the egg heads and ivory tower dwellers get it right. Not only right - but PERFECT
In 2004 I decided it was finally my time to buy an ATV. It was one of life's landmarks. I had turned a corner in life, I was making more money, I had more time to hunt and fish and could finally afford some of the good life. Not bad for a dummy that started out working in the warehouse driving a forklift! When I bought it, the Bomb and the Yamaha Grizzily were the best quads in this class.
I did a little trail riding with it but it's primary purpose was hunting and fishing. The trails were mostly easy, and the hunting was grand. It always started, and was always there to pull other quads and their hapless riders out of the mire, muskeg and other quad-eating terrain. It's very possible she goes home with new owners tonight, and I find myself at another of life's milestones wondering where in hell I am...and how I got here!
It's a 'maturity thing'. Bah - in straight language...I've turned into an old fart! I think it happened last night while I was sleeping. I can't run 14 Km at the drop of a hat anymore. I can't pack a moose out of the bush myself anymore, my back is giving me trouble and my gut is expanding like a bloody super nova! The bush is no longer a place for me and it is time to admit my hunting days are over. I remember friends and campfires and frosty mornings and hunting in the mountains...and for me, letting go of Ol' Yeller has been a very difficult thing to do. I should have sold it two years ago...but memories are hard things to sell. It's funny how this age thing works. One year, you are just pumped to get out, take after the game, set up the tent and camp and live like a man - free of the bullshit of the city and its maddening swarms of morons and tools...and a few years later that ground gets cold and hard, setting up camp is a pain in the ass, and shooting a deer and cleaning it ... is drudgery! What in hell happened to me...? And who is that old fart I see in the mirror in the morning when I shave?
So long, Ol' Yeller! No matter how old I get, a piece of my heart and soul will always ride with you! Happy trails.