F
Field Ethos
Guest
By Byron Harvison
The first thing I hear most mornings is the coffee grinder.
It’s loud enough to wake the dog but not the kids, and that’s about the only controlled variable in the whole operation. By the time the espresso machine starts its low metallic rattle, I’m already mentally inventorying all the unfinished things waiting for me in the garage.
The 1982 FJ60 Land Cruiser is the first one that comes to mind.
It runs. That’s the important part. Turn the key and the old straight-six wakes up like a tired bear—slow, grumbly, but dependable. But “runs” and “ready” are two very different standards. The suspension is tired, the brakes feel like a suggestion, and the rust bubbles on the rear quarter panel are starting to organize themselves into a small colony. Right now, it’s a grocery-getter. A noble grocery-getter, but still.
What it should be is a truck that points toward mountains without asking permission.
Then there’s the 1974 Triumph Tiger.
If the FJ60 is a bear, the Triumph is a skeleton. The frame sits on the far side of the garage like a patient animal waiting for its organs to be returned. The engine is scattered across the workbench in careful little piles—cylinders here, cases there, bolts organized in old protein containers that have long since lost their labels.
Three years.
Three years is a long time for an engine to stay in pieces. Sometimes I’ll stand there holding a wrench and stare at it like I’ve walked into a room and forgotten why.
Next to that sits the vintage stereo, its back panel off, wires hanging out like nerves. It stopped working two winters ago and fixing it should be simple. A capacitor here, a solder joint there. I even have the replacement parts.
They’ve been in a small envelope on the bench for 11 months.
Then there are the hobbies that require their own tiny ecosystems of equipment.
Fly tying.
Ammo reloading.
Little stations of precision and patience, both of which require time measured in quiet hours—hours that tend to evaporate somewhere between work, dinner, kid rearing, and the mysterious disappearance of socks in the laundry.
The funny part is that I genuinely love all of it.
Or maybe the problem is that I love all of it.
Because after the garage inventory comes the physical one: climbing and riding.
Climbing, especially, is humbling. Most of the people I climb with are better than me, which is both motivating and mildly terrifying. Some of them are full-time climbers—lean, efficient humans who move up rock like gravity filed a complaint and was denied.
Meanwhile, I’m over here squeezing sessions in between meetings and family logistics, trying to stay fit enough that my forearms don’t detonate halfway up a route.
And then there’s the mountain bike. Or the gravel bike.
The main goal with both, at this point, is simple: ride often enough that the first climb of the day doesn’t end with me questioning my life choices and trying not to throw up every 15 minutes.
First world problems, right?
Still, it’s a strange equation. When I was younger, time stretched endlessly ahead of me like an empty highway. I had whole weekends—entire weeks—where the only thing on the calendar was possibility.
What I didn’t have was money.
Back then I’d stare at motorcycles I couldn’t buy, trucks I couldn’t fix, climbing trips I couldn’t afford. Passion was cheap; participation was expensive.
Now the math has flipped.
I can afford the parts.
I can buy the tires.
I can order the carb rebuild kit, the climbing rope, the fly-tying materials that look like something stolen from a tropical bird sanctuary.
But time—time is the scarce resource.
So the garage fills with projects paused in mid-sentence. The calendar fills with short rides, quick sessions, incremental progress measured in inches rather than miles.
And yet, every now and then, something moves forward.
A bolt finally breaks loose.
A section of wiring gets soldered.
The Triumph engine gains one more piece of itself.
A climb goes smoothly. A ride feels strong.
The FJ60 idles in the driveway, waiting patiently like it knows we’ll get there eventually.
Being a modern-day renaissance man, it turns out, isn’t about mastering everything.
It’s about living in the middle of all the things you love—even if most of them are currently sitting in the garage, half finished, waiting for Saturday.
The post Middle-Aged Dilemma appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
The first thing I hear most mornings is the coffee grinder.
It’s loud enough to wake the dog but not the kids, and that’s about the only controlled variable in the whole operation. By the time the espresso machine starts its low metallic rattle, I’m already mentally inventorying all the unfinished things waiting for me in the garage.
The 1982 FJ60 Land Cruiser is the first one that comes to mind.
It runs. That’s the important part. Turn the key and the old straight-six wakes up like a tired bear—slow, grumbly, but dependable. But “runs” and “ready” are two very different standards. The suspension is tired, the brakes feel like a suggestion, and the rust bubbles on the rear quarter panel are starting to organize themselves into a small colony. Right now, it’s a grocery-getter. A noble grocery-getter, but still.
What it should be is a truck that points toward mountains without asking permission.
Then there’s the 1974 Triumph Tiger.
If the FJ60 is a bear, the Triumph is a skeleton. The frame sits on the far side of the garage like a patient animal waiting for its organs to be returned. The engine is scattered across the workbench in careful little piles—cylinders here, cases there, bolts organized in old protein containers that have long since lost their labels.
Three years.
Three years is a long time for an engine to stay in pieces. Sometimes I’ll stand there holding a wrench and stare at it like I’ve walked into a room and forgotten why.
An Inventory of the Passions
Next to that sits the vintage stereo, its back panel off, wires hanging out like nerves. It stopped working two winters ago and fixing it should be simple. A capacitor here, a solder joint there. I even have the replacement parts.
They’ve been in a small envelope on the bench for 11 months.
Then there are the hobbies that require their own tiny ecosystems of equipment.
Fly tying.
Ammo reloading.
Little stations of precision and patience, both of which require time measured in quiet hours—hours that tend to evaporate somewhere between work, dinner, kid rearing, and the mysterious disappearance of socks in the laundry.
The funny part is that I genuinely love all of it.
Or maybe the problem is that I love all of it.
Because after the garage inventory comes the physical one: climbing and riding.
Climbing, especially, is humbling. Most of the people I climb with are better than me, which is both motivating and mildly terrifying. Some of them are full-time climbers—lean, efficient humans who move up rock like gravity filed a complaint and was denied.
Meanwhile, I’m over here squeezing sessions in between meetings and family logistics, trying to stay fit enough that my forearms don’t detonate halfway up a route.
And then there’s the mountain bike. Or the gravel bike.
The main goal with both, at this point, is simple: ride often enough that the first climb of the day doesn’t end with me questioning my life choices and trying not to throw up every 15 minutes.
First world problems, right?
Middle-Aged Math
Still, it’s a strange equation. When I was younger, time stretched endlessly ahead of me like an empty highway. I had whole weekends—entire weeks—where the only thing on the calendar was possibility.
What I didn’t have was money.
Back then I’d stare at motorcycles I couldn’t buy, trucks I couldn’t fix, climbing trips I couldn’t afford. Passion was cheap; participation was expensive.
Now the math has flipped.
I can afford the parts.
I can buy the tires.
I can order the carb rebuild kit, the climbing rope, the fly-tying materials that look like something stolen from a tropical bird sanctuary.
But time—time is the scarce resource.
So the garage fills with projects paused in mid-sentence. The calendar fills with short rides, quick sessions, incremental progress measured in inches rather than miles.
And yet, every now and then, something moves forward.
A bolt finally breaks loose.
A section of wiring gets soldered.
The Triumph engine gains one more piece of itself.
A climb goes smoothly. A ride feels strong.
The FJ60 idles in the driveway, waiting patiently like it knows we’ll get there eventually.
Being a modern-day renaissance man, it turns out, isn’t about mastering everything.
It’s about living in the middle of all the things you love—even if most of them are currently sitting in the garage, half finished, waiting for Saturday.
The post Middle-Aged Dilemma appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
