Motorcycling Has Killed My Yard

The good weather, and the neglect of three months of yard work has taken its toll.

What was once a somewhat shabby and overgrown plot has now matured into the kind of yard that causes committees to form and ordinances to be enforced. The culprits: An old sink from the kitchen renovation, two charcoal grills, and the middle row of seats from a 1990 VW Vanagon—sold by the way, to six kids from Leeds who are currently making their way across the U.S. and Canada. These items are, as the hosts of HGTV inform me, “the focal points” of my landscape.

The regular afternoon rains that have killed my riding schedule have also encouraged the creeping vines to run unchecked through the garden. So, in an effort to make up for past indulgences, I decided to face this monster head on.

It is amazing what you forget as you get older. Apparently the little section of memory—once reserved for the information that keeps me from hurting myself—has been cleared out. It has been re-purposed to store the names of my youngest daughter's stuffed animals, their location, and ranking within the royal hierarchy. The space in the back of my mind which once reminded me of what poison ivy looks like is gone.

It was bad. The idea of stuffing my foot into a leather boot for a ride was as appealing as a trip to the vivisectionist's. I missed days of riding in warm light that lasted until nine. My skin was crawling.

I am on the last two days of a prescription steroid. Things are on the mend. My right foot no longer frightens small children. The vines however, continue to be a menace.