I’ve been quiet, yeah. Still will be. Not out of choice, not out of some grand introspective phase. Just backed up, buried under the weight of deadlines and obligations and the kind of shit that piles up when you take your eyes off it for a second. A Viva coming up, things that need tending to, responsibilities that don’t care if you’re late, don’t care if you’re broken, don’t care if your body’s been put through the kind of physics experiment usually reserved for crash test dummies.
Because that’s what really set me back. A 4x4 utility truck, barreling through my life like it had an agenda. And it left its signature, all right—a dislocated shoulder, an AC joint Grade 3 tear, a dislocated knee, and enough stitches to make me look like something dug out of a Civil War trench. The body keeps score, and right now, mine’s tallying up injuries like an overworked bookie.
But I heal quick. Quicker than most. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. Doesn’t mean I don’t wake up with the weight of it pressing down, joints popping like a rusted hinge, muscles reminding me that flesh is a fragile, temporary thing. But I keep moving. Always moving. Because what else is there?
Apart from that? Everything’s great. Everything’s hunky-dory.
But honestly, I’m off the crutches. Walking, slow but steady, like something pulled from the wreckage and still figuring out what’s left in working order. Healing, too—nicely, even. Bodies mend. Time does its thing. But time doesn’t wait, and the backlog doesn’t care. There’s a mountain of work sitting there, staring, daring me to make a dent in it.
Catching up’s the real battle. Not the stitches, not the torn-up joints, not the way the body reminds you that you’re not made of iron. No, the real fight is in clawing back the hours, the days, the momentum lost. And that takes longer than any bone or ligament to heal.
Got to replace what I had, because now it’s just a lump of twisted metal. This time, going towards a cruiser. Getting old, showing my age, settling into the kind of ride that doesn’t need to prove anything.
So the real question: Triumph Rocket 3 or Harley Sportster?
The Rocket 3—a 2,500cc beast, torque like a battering ram, sheer brutality wrapped in metal and arrogance. A cruiser with the power of a sportbike’s nightmares, the kind of machine that doesn’t take off, it launches. It’s excess, but the right kind of excess. The kind that makes the road feel like it belongs to you.
Or the Harley Sportster—lean, stripped down, pure attitude. It’s not about speed, not about numbers, but about the feel, the history, the deep-down, unapologetic American steel. It’s a ride that isn’t in a rush because it doesn’t need to be.
One is a storm, the other is a statement.
Either way, the road is waiting.
Was on my bike. Left lane, minding my own business. Ambulance comes up on the right lane. Middle-lane genius hears the siren, panics, and instead of doing literally anything sensible, swerves left and slams the brakes—right in front of me.
What can we say? Some people are idiots. No situational awareness, no thought process beyond react and hope for the best. Maybe they figured I’d just evaporate. Maybe they thought physics would take the day off.
Either way, I got to be the collateral damage in their grand display of incompetence.
On a bicycle, I wouldn’t have had the unique pleasure of flying 15 meters through the air—a real once-in-a-lifetime experience, complete with a hard lesson in physics and an even harder landing.
Not only the experience of flying, but when I landed, I got to enjoy a special, one-of-a-kind skin scrub—courtesy of premium, road-treated gravel products.
An exfoliation like no other, designed to strip away all that unnecessary, dead-end living skin from key areas of my body.
Truly a luxury treatment.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Feb 16, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1890936635401060402?t=r0kBw4tJp5WFYZUL9kNZsg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2591
Because that’s what really set me back. A 4x4 utility truck, barreling through my life like it had an agenda. And it left its signature, all right—a dislocated shoulder, an AC joint Grade 3 tear, a dislocated knee, and enough stitches to make me look like something dug out of a Civil War trench. The body keeps score, and right now, mine’s tallying up injuries like an overworked bookie.
But I heal quick. Quicker than most. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. Doesn’t mean I don’t wake up with the weight of it pressing down, joints popping like a rusted hinge, muscles reminding me that flesh is a fragile, temporary thing. But I keep moving. Always moving. Because what else is there?
Apart from that? Everything’s great. Everything’s hunky-dory.
But honestly, I’m off the crutches. Walking, slow but steady, like something pulled from the wreckage and still figuring out what’s left in working order. Healing, too—nicely, even. Bodies mend. Time does its thing. But time doesn’t wait, and the backlog doesn’t care. There’s a mountain of work sitting there, staring, daring me to make a dent in it.
Catching up’s the real battle. Not the stitches, not the torn-up joints, not the way the body reminds you that you’re not made of iron. No, the real fight is in clawing back the hours, the days, the momentum lost. And that takes longer than any bone or ligament to heal.
Got to replace what I had, because now it’s just a lump of twisted metal. This time, going towards a cruiser. Getting old, showing my age, settling into the kind of ride that doesn’t need to prove anything.
So the real question: Triumph Rocket 3 or Harley Sportster?
The Rocket 3—a 2,500cc beast, torque like a battering ram, sheer brutality wrapped in metal and arrogance. A cruiser with the power of a sportbike’s nightmares, the kind of machine that doesn’t take off, it launches. It’s excess, but the right kind of excess. The kind that makes the road feel like it belongs to you.
Or the Harley Sportster—lean, stripped down, pure attitude. It’s not about speed, not about numbers, but about the feel, the history, the deep-down, unapologetic American steel. It’s a ride that isn’t in a rush because it doesn’t need to be.
One is a storm, the other is a statement.
Either way, the road is waiting.
Was on my bike. Left lane, minding my own business. Ambulance comes up on the right lane. Middle-lane genius hears the siren, panics, and instead of doing literally anything sensible, swerves left and slams the brakes—right in front of me.
What can we say? Some people are idiots. No situational awareness, no thought process beyond react and hope for the best. Maybe they figured I’d just evaporate. Maybe they thought physics would take the day off.
Either way, I got to be the collateral damage in their grand display of incompetence.
On a bicycle, I wouldn’t have had the unique pleasure of flying 15 meters through the air—a real once-in-a-lifetime experience, complete with a hard lesson in physics and an even harder landing.
Not only the experience of flying, but when I landed, I got to enjoy a special, one-of-a-kind skin scrub—courtesy of premium, road-treated gravel products.
An exfoliation like no other, designed to strip away all that unnecessary, dead-end living skin from key areas of my body.
Truly a luxury treatment.
S. Tominaga AKA CSW
Feb 16, 2025
https://x.com/CsTominaga/status/1890936635401060402?t=r0kBw4tJp5WFYZUL9kNZsg&s=19
https://t.me/S_Tominaga/2591
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