To the world, it was a 1978 Honda CB750. A rusted, seized, forgotten piece of scrap metal my neighbor had paid me fifty dollars to haul away. To my boss, it was a waste of time I could be spending on overtime. To my girlfriend, it was the reason we hadn't been on a date in six weeks.
I pushed it out of the garage into the November rain. I didn't ride it. I just sat on it, the key in my hand, feeling the cold water run down my face.
Tomorrow, I'll probably lose the girlfriend. The mortgage is still due. The world is still burning.
But they don't know that last Tuesday, when the anxiety got so bad I couldn't breathe, I spent an hour just polishing the engine casing. The repetitive motion, the smell of metal and polish—it brought me back.