Rhonda the Honda soaks up the Tetons during one of her many adventures. Sam Morse photo.
Dear Rhonda (the Honda),
It seems like just yesterday we met on the streets of San Francisco. It was obvious from the start that you were damaged from your previous relationship. Whoever he was, he didn't appreciate you.
You carried a lot of baggage (dents, scratches, super-glued side mirror), but once I learned to see past your flaws and accept you, our love only deepened — rust, missing muffler and all.
But now that I’ve seen past your rough exterior, I understand it’s just something you show people — a wall you’ve built — to keep from getting hurt. And broken into by meth heads.
Remember that time we ripped off your back bumper on Snake River Road? I do.
Remember the time you got buried three times in one week at Kirkwood? My back still hurts from digging you out, again and again. But that’s what true love is.
You’ve been better to me than I deserve. It melts my heart remembering all the times we rallied up Teton Pass, trusting your front-wheel drive would be enough, together.
And you never let me down. Ever.
Rhonda romping the Pass — a love that will always burn. Sam Morse photo.
It’s not that I don’t adore you — I do — but our relationship has grown stagnant, and I know a younger ski bum would appreciate you more.
Or totally fuck you up beyond repair.
The truth is, I treat you like shit. I used to change your oil all the time and give you studded snow tires, but now, I hide you away from the world — you deserve better. It's brutal to admit, but I don’t even want romantic prospects to see us together, and for that, I’m ashamed (of you).
Seriously, it's not you — it's me.
So, with a heavy heart, I think we should see other people.
From The Column: The Bumion
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