This morning I discovered an interesting fact. Insurance coverage on the Enfield costs us $19 per year. Nineteen dollars. Go through your pants pockets, I bet you’ll found at least that much crumpled up in there.
Having a low dollar bike that no one else seems to want works in our favor. It’s almost like free insurance.
We’ve had a setback on the Lilo Sidecar Dog front. During her first vet visit after adopting her, we discovered that she has heartworm.
All told, the treatment for heartworm takes months. During the course, Lilo has to go through a total of 3 injections that kill off the worms which then have to dissolve in the bloodstream. (Don’t google it if you’re easily grossed out). It is important to keep her relaxed and inactive during the recovery weeks following the injections until her bloodwork is all clear.
This is the point in the conversation where I could start going bananas about how some people can be shitbags and don’t care for their animals but – I won’t. Instead I’ll just be thankful that she became a part of our family and that we have the means to care for her. All in all it’s our good fortune.
As she takes it easy and sleeps on the couch (and my maps) we’re practicing wearing the doggles that Tio Rascon (Ed) sent and looking forward to the future. More than anything I just want my sweet doggo to be well.
There are few things as soul crushing as hearing something fall over in the garage followed by the cavernous echo of whatever that thing was bouncing off of your sidecar.
Then when you walk into the garage to find a dent and the once perfect orange paint torn down to the metal? Ugh. It takes every ounce of will you can muster not to flip the fuck out.
This type of moment is precisely when I need to work on my attachment to “things.” It’s just a motorcycle with a scratch. But initially upon seeing the dig, it was like my whole body recoiled in horror and electricity ran across the top of my skin.
Note to self: Just because something isn’t perfect doesn’t mean it isn’t beautiful. You know this.
My sweetie bought me a big pink bandaid magnet until I can have the issue addressed. It makes it much easier to pretend the scar doesn’t exist.
On Sunday I popped in to town to meet friends for coffee. It was a beautiful afternoon so there were lots of riders around enjoying the sunshine. I pulled in to the parking lot, backed in to a spot and got off the bike.
Another motorcyclist of about 70 shuffled over as I begin unstrapping my helmet and taking it off.
“Nice. Zat da real cuhluh?”
::blink:blink:: “Yep, it’s the real color.”
“How many hawspowuh?”
“Not sure, maybe 30?”
“Uh hundrit fitty?”
“No, thirty. Thirty. Three zero. It’s a 500 single.”