Returning from the mountains, my head was clear. I connected with my new Burton board, and thought that the purchase was a lucid, intelligent, well though-out decision, despite my manic state. I got home, on the edge of peace, exhausted, but I unloaded my car anyway.
I carried my new board to the sports closet, dried it off, and placed it inside. To my surprise, my very first RIDE board, out of no where, fell into my arms. I stared at the board. Its edges were rough, its surface worn, but something about this board made me pause. I closed the closet, and carried the board to my living room.
I stared at the board all night, I had totally forgotten about this board. But how could I? This was the first board I had ever ridden, the board that broke my wrist, the board that first taught me of freedom before ravaging my mind and body across a slick patch of ice. What could this board offer me now?
I hesitated. Does this old board deserve a ride? Shouldn't I have outgrown this board by now? Maybe... but on the other hand, I'm an entirely different rider than I was fifteen years ago. Maybe this board is better for me than the new board after all. Of course, there is only one way to find out (and it's not by ending a sentence with a preposition...).
3 comments:
are these posts supposed to be a metaphor for whether or not you should take a risk on a new "board" in your life or stick with the tried and true "old board"? Youre alias should be changed to haleigh's so deep, instead of haleigh's so real.
Would you believe me if I told you I really do love snowboarding truly madly deeply?
truly madly deeply - like savage garden?
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