I’d like to think that I’ve come to grips with the principles of non-attachment so well that I’m not attached to them.
Kathmandu is like an eddy in a river. Generations of flotsam and jetsam has ended up making lazy circles in the lee of the Himalayas, bobbing like a coke bottle while the rest of the world heaves and rushes by, somewhere else.
This detritus includes a handful of vintage motorcycles, all with provenance and long stories of near misses, bad decisions, wind and dust. After eighteen years of bobbing around myself, I found myself the humble caretaker of a 1972 BMW R75/5 and wrestling with the delirious joy of property.
The bike is delightful to ride. Ornery. Fast and perfectly impractical. It inspires desire, demands holding on to the grips a bit harder than one should at speed.
Ultimately, this too will pass someday. The roads here are dangerous and poor. Anything could happen. The paperwork for the bike is sketchy to say the least, and forty more years on the road would only but double its lifespan.
Breathe. Hold on, but loosely. Relax. Lean. Look ahead.
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