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Been there - The satisfaction of relaying an experience to an interested party.
Getting there - That's the key. Neither present nor past tense can exist without the getting.
We are sacrificial lambs. And our reward? A few golden seconds of gratification. By the time our tires finally touch the track, we have expended enough time, energy and money to have built a city. We end up with race cars instead - mean spirited heartbreaking machines that must be gingerly towed to Point B before attempting to spit out every internal component, including the driver. We racers fancy ourselves as intellectuals, but logic simply doesn't apply here. Ours is a fool's mission, born of pure emotion. We blindly accept our lot and follow our jones like lemmings, knowing full well that the farther we get from home, the more likely we are to find disaster. We call it romance, and go willingly to wherever the road takes us. While piling up the miles, we care not what awaits us. We are lambs. Lemmings. Zombies. Hopelessly strung out on getting there, as illustrated via the following photo essay, assembled from the crumbs of the vast SGE archives. Hop in...
SQUIRREL AND TOOLBOX
A message for you from the great George Trosley, via Motormouth Ray. You're welcome.
UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN
One last look at the road. Photographer unknown.
Apologies for the curt post. Work is piling up, as I continue to fall behind. Hopefully, next week will be better. Thanks for understanding.