It feels a little bit like going to the dentist after all the rough roads i’ve ridden in my sweet Sorcha. They’re rotating my tires, and i asked the guy not to be mad at me when he looks at the skid plate.

i don’t mind if people see my mistakes as long as they don’t judge me, but since that’s all any of us seem to do anymore, i get why nobody else wants to be seen. Anymore i aim to be a person who leaves plenty of space for people to be less than their best, but expects them to try.

This is Sorcha’s fourth oil change since we hit the road. i’m collecting the stickers. There are all sorts of milestones to clock—i have no idea how many actual miles we’ve gone. What i do know is that i treat my whole life like i treat my car: with a healthy degree of care, yet audaciously. Yesterday i had to coax her up a dirt road she thought was too skiddy–technical term for the orange dashboard light featuring the car atop squiggles–just like i had to gird my loins for some looming bad news from someone i care about. In the end we made it up that dirt hill, and i’m not getting any lovin’ in this state. Instead, Sorcha gets her work done, and i’ll take a hike i’ve been eyeing, my own tune-up. My heart feels like her skid plate looks: a bit worse for wear, ready for more.