Ah, sweet, sweet Honda.
How clearly I remember the day I first saw you. I walked past you in the Honda parking lot, that March day in 2006,
and said, breathlessly, "what the hell is that?"
We test drove you, Sweet Baboo and I. We test drove you straight to our house, where we checked to see if two tri bikes owned by a Clydesdale and an Athena would fit in you.
And they did. And so it was that we decided we must possess you, and we took you home.
Over the months, you carried us and our gear to many triathlons, marathons, duathlons. Why, you took us to Sweet Baboo's first Ironman and my first 70.3. In between, you made recovery runs by carrying me to work. Many, many ungraded tests sat in your back seat over many a weekend.
Yet, you never complained. Never asked for more gas than was absolutely necessary (27 mpg city, 35 highway) because you loved us and knew we needed that money for more gear.
But, now all that is gone.
The large blue pickup truck that barreled down on us today showed no mercy, smashing into your rear passenger door, tearing a gash in it and spinning you around until you were flush against the side of the truck. Shattering your windows.
Ripping apart your tires.
Ripping apart your tires.
You absorbed the impact to save me, sacrificing yourself, keeping me safe.
But it is unlikely you will recover.
The truck that killed you will need a dab of touch-up paint. 
The Fit is no longer Go.
R.I.P., dear friend.
...
