There are times in everyone's life when it is appropriate to get a little dirty. Idle moments in the mind turn to dirty thoughts. Sights, sounds, scents and tactile sensations that under normal circumstances would be banal become the sparks of obsession.
An empty garage. The scent of leather and diesel fuel. The slipperiness of fresh oil. The sounds of a thunderstorm. Those dirty magazines and websites and advertisements conspire against my last twenty-some years of cleanliness.
Yes. I used to be a dirty boy. Memories like echos from a previous life are becoming clearer. In the garage or shed. Maybe the barn on a sweltering Saturday afternoon and out by the pond on Sunday. After school under the oak tree was a favorite.
Alright. Before I run into any trouble, I want to get dirty. I mean really dirty.
Like grease and oil and skinned knuckles and sweaty type of dirty.
Had you going???
Growing up on a farm I learned to love getting dirty repairing things. Big things, not like toasters and coffee pots and door bells. I mean big pickups and Caterpillar dozers and cranes and tractors and all means of mechanical items.
Replacing that fuel injector in my little Chevy pickup really caused a spark. Struggling through a few repairs on my Rebel fanned the flames. Repairing the clutch on my Sporty was honestly joyful.
And my poor little VX800 project bike; all 500 pieces of her. In garage where I will be moving is a place all ready for her. She will come back to life... I will get dirty again... And enjoy the hell out of it!
Wall Drugstore and Badlands National Park
23 minutes ago