black chevrolet

I love old metal like I love old leather boots. It's seen the weather and the pounding and has survived the toil. Everytime I downshift Suzi at a stop sign I feel the old steel cogs slipping apart and slipping together; or rather, I don't feel them. Parts mating and meshing and revving in their old worn tracks, chain and cams humming through their patina of oil. Riding the Sharp Blue Number every day makes me forget how comfortable aged machinery is. It exudes a bit of that teenager insecurity.