More Choices

You can lead another to the door - but only they can open it. Or, as Mom was fond of saying (I am not sure of the exact circumstance(s) she used it so often but quite sure it had something to do with homework, household chores or Dad), You can lead a horse to water - but you can’t make him drink. Lastly, in this tenebrific opening visual is the cheeky standard editorial cliché (the very word that betrays original thought!): I can show you to what to look at - but I cannot tell you what to see.

We are attempting another crossing of the Rubicon known as choice. 

The run-up to this came as a result of my losing the battle with the carburetor on my 2002 Honda Shadow VT600. I had unwittingly allowed regular unleaded gasoline (with at least 10% ethanol) to sit in the tank over the term of the winter. Initially surprised at its refusal to idle properly and then lose power altogether with throttle, I consulted the New Testament of motorcycle maintenance, YouTube, for consultation. It was there that I discovered, with frustration, the damage potential with my lack of proper storage protocol. I had, according to one video-star mechanic, rode it hard and put it up wet. 

Taking the high emotional ground and choosing (theme bell ringing) to attempt troubleshooting myself was both noble and necessary. The two shops close to me are both now charging $100/hour. I am not in the position right now to be paying someone more than I make in a week for a carb douche. And since we are (now) on the subject of money, please assist me in the proper take-away from the fact that the world’s richest man (Bezos) and I are both in the same income tax bracket. WHAT? 

So it goes with life in our current upside-down world. I can’t afford to have my moto fixed in order to burn fewer fossil fuels but Bezos will get me the parts necessary to do the repair myself by noon tomorrow, assuming I have Prime. 

I am standing in my tiny kitchen sipping a cup of steaming coffee. It is what I call third generation Joe. So named because I have added to the mix three times. I just leave the first two gens of used beans in the filter and add a tablespoon or so of fresh bean, add water and hit the brew button. I swear that if I did a blindfold test YOU would be unable to tell the difference. Unless you are a Starbucks snob. But that is your choice (theme ding). If you want to spend five bucks a cup to my fiddycents, please enjoy (another choice).

So goes the pretext. As I stand in the kitchen I consider my options. Stay with the repair, go deeper, watch more videos. Wrestle it into the bed of the Ranger and haul it to the shop and bite the bullet. Sell it as is on Craigs List. Get the repair done, bite a larger caliber bullet, then sell as a great way to save on gas. Get the repair done and ride it one more season. Buy an electric bike. Ride my bike more. 

I sip the Joe3 and consider the paradox in all of this. I manage a chuckle. Who cares? All I have, all we ever have is a series of choices. We will eternally have the option of do/no-do, go/no-go and as the Bard so poetically put it four hundred years ago, be/not-be. 

I can choose to be happy. I can choose to be sad. I can opt for acceptance or rail against the unfairness of it all. I can act or I can hide. I can, as a popular TV show used to promote, light one candle or curse the darkness. We can always aspire to do what must be done, the best we can, where we are and with what we have. Always. As in coffee, it is better or bitter.

I finish the coffee ritual and place my favorite mug on its lava coaster from Kailua-Kona in front of the overworked Mr. Coffee percolator. It will quietly remain on-deck until I desire another cup, maybe an hour. In the meantime, I put the bike decision on the back burner, thinking that divine intervention might be an e-mail away. 

And pass through the door towards the water and see more choices.