Boots

The other day, I was riding southbound on Vine, coming back from the gym. I shifted gears, and the sole of my left boot came off. It fell into onto the street. I pulled over.

By some bizarre coincidence, I was within fifty feet of California Surplus, an army surplus store from which I had bought this pair of boots a year ago. I limped to their front door... and they had closed fifteen minutes ago.

I have a spare helmet, but not a spare set of boots.

I rode over the next day wearing my Converse. It was weird - I felt like I was shifting with my bare feet.

I got boots, and I hope they last at least another year.

New boots chew up the side of your leg. It's like a tattoo - you earn it through pain.

My first set of boots were a little tight. They left neat, read circles of cut skin around my mid-shin. I thought perhaps this happened because they were too tight, so this time I got boots a half size larger. They did an even worse job on me, sawing at the skin right beneath the muscle. It sucked and it bled. I wore nothing but those boots for a week, trying to break them in as soon as possible.

It worked. Now the boots fit fine, but I haven't healed yet. It looks like I walked into barbed wire. But again... if you're scared of pain and injury, you don't belong on a damn motorcycle.

Freedom demands pain.