Steve, an old college roommate of mine, and his partner, Scott, were in town from LA for a few days, and we arranged to get together for lunch on Thursday.

Late summer can sometimes be cold, rainy, and miserable, and after a week-long stretch of spectacular weather, I was wishing that’s how the day was when we left Michigan. After all, a gray, drizzly day would’ve made it so much easier to leave. Instead, the aqua-colored lake sparkled in the sun, beckoning us for one last swim. A warm breeze rustled the leaves, which were still green in the treetops. “Where are you going?” it all seemed to say. “Not back to New York, I hope.”

Are you sick of alpacas yet? Okay then, how about motorcycles?

Although I brought my laptop with me, there are a couple of reasons why I waited until I got home to start posting about our trip. The main reason is that it felt so good to be away from a computer screen, I could barely bring myself to take my laptop out of its case, let alone turn it on. Brad told me that there was a wireless connection at their house, however, and said I was welcome to use it anytime. Old habits die hard, so I took him up on it one morning and rode my motorcycle to the ranch for computer time and coffee.

When I mention to people that my friend has an alpaca farm, they usually imagine a couple of animals on a couple of acres, but Great Lakes Ranch has nearly 50 animals on nearly 150 acres of land and is one of the country’s premier alpaca breeders. I didn’t even realize it myself until last year, while honeymooning in Utah, when Deborah and I ran into a couple at the welcome center to the National Bridges National Monument. I noticed they had an alpaca sticker on their car, so I said, “I know this is a long shot, but I have a friend who raises alpacas. I wonder if you know him, Brad Sprouse.”

Despite knowing Stephen Sprouse for nearly twenty years, I didn’t meet his mother, Joanne, or his brother, Brad, or any of his other relatives until after he passed away. When we finally met, we all agreed that it was long overdue and regretted that it couldn’t have been under happier circumstances.

Our trip was a palindrome, beginning with an annoying drizzle as we left Brooklyn, giving way to clear skies and warm summer sun for the bulk of our trip and then ending with a return drive through hundreds of miles of rain and the hypnotic thump thump thump of windshield wipers working overtime.

There were about five guys at the motorcycle shop when I stopped in to hand over some money to Hugh so he could order parts to complete the repair to my bike's front end.

"Hey," said the foot doctor when he came into the examination room, ready to remove my staples. "You're all alone today."

Deborah had accompanied me on my previous two visits and, apparently, she'd made an impression.

As one day runs into another, I'm starting to feel like a blogging houseplant. Regardless of my perceptions, however, things are moving along faster than I expected. I thought I had another week before getting my staples out, but the doctor's office just called to confirm my appointment on Monday. A pleasant surprise.

On my way out the door to meet Deborah for dinner last night, I passed a woman in our courtyard. A rather short, middle-aged woman with tight. frizzy, black curls. She saw me on my crutches and beamed a smile. "Hi," she said in such a familiar way that I thought we must've met before. "What happened to you, poor thing?"

I'm not sure I heard the story right; it was windy on our roof and there was a lot of chatter among the people gathered there to watch the fireworks, but between sips of beer and the muffled poofs, putts, and pops of the fireworks, Jason told me about a friend of his who owned some property in Williamsburg.

Today I ventured out to drop off a rent check. Okay, I didn't exactly venture out since I never left the building, but considering I haven't left the apartment in a few days, it counts as something.

An insurance adjuster visited my motorcycle this morning and took some pictures. He wasn't very experienced with motorcycles, he told me, and had absolutely zero experience with vintage bikes.

One of the first things people ask me after they hear about my accident is, "Are you going to keep riding?" All I can say is that there is nothing in the world that makes me want to ride more than not being able to ride.

If I knew it was going to make Deborah so happy, I would've had a motorcycle accident a long time ago.

After two decades of everyone telling me what a great book it is, I'm finally reading Bonfire of the Vanities. I don't know why I've never read it before — especially since I've read several of Tom Wolfe's other books. It didn't help when the book was turned into a colossal flop of a movie, although I never saw the movie, either. But all that is neither here nor there. I'm reading it now.

Shortly after moving into my previous apartment, management of the building was turned over to a notoriously shady management company. I never had any dealings with them, really, because to call them with a concern was a waste of time.

Deborah went on an interview with what was advertised as a "commercial construction company." Although she didn't know what that was, exactly, it didn't really matter — it was for a part-time bookkeeping job, and numbers are numbers.

In case you didn't catch it from the previous post, my darling bride is away for a week. (I've been told that until we've been married a year, she is my "bride" and not my "wife") She's gone home to the family farm, as they say, in western Pennsylvania for her mother's birthday.