2024 marks the tenth anniversary of the Atlanta Snowpocalypse. Here’s the tale from the way-back machine about surviving it in my Subaru Forester .
Fifty-two. On my birthday this year I’m having a good laugh at some aspects of my life that have come full circle. As usual, they were not in the brochure.
On the house project scale of refresh—remodel—renovate—rehabilitate, we fall squarely in the renovate category. We’re not ripping everything down to the studs but we have to do pretty much everything just short of that.
When I sit down to engage in this little annual life review exercise each year, I never know where it’s going to take me. I usually have a sense of what I think the tone of it will be. Then I find myself hurtling along a completely different thought trajectory. This year is no different.
I know all my rider friends out there are thinking “Well, duh!” at the title of this post. But humor me while I help our non-riding friends understand a little better why we do what we do.
Yesterday I finished yet another round of injury management. My new doc in Silver City is beginning to understand how seriously I take these recoveries and released me with a figurative gold star and a pat on the back.
“The Manor?” you ask with a puzzled look on your face. Well friends, that’s what we call our small and currently supremely ugly house. Our street has a stately British-sounding name that belies the entirely not-stately reality of a modest neighborhood in a small New Mexican town.