No longer as I once was, time and many dirt roads have slowed my motion and added unfamiliar sounds. I can live with the groans and sputters, but adjusting to this slower pace is difficult, for I am anxious to see around the next bend and over that distant hill. I was built for adventure, not for moseying.
My owner's manual is filled
with fingerprints, and my cover is ragged at best. I am no longer first to be selected, and
replacement parts are no longer offered.
If only they could see my spirit, they’d know my race is not over. Age is just a number.
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