Tucked in a corner of a warehouse in Chicopee, MA -- just 10 miles or so from where I sit -- is a long, narrow cardboard box, barely containing the bristling energy radiated by 17 and a half pounds of finely tuned American alloy and Japanese gearing. The glossy red paint job softly glows within the darkness of the container.
It spent last night at the airport in Toledo. (Kinda feel bad for it.)
I wonder how bad it would be to cancel my clients for the day, floor it over to Chicopee, and "liberate" the box from its own private Guantánamo?