Chink In My Armor

This morning, I found a small hole in my riding jacket. Not through all the layers or anything, just through the reflective woven portion on my left arm. Relieved it was just a surface imperfection, I sat for a while meditating on whether the hole got there from a rock at 80mph or from one of my patented no speed get offs or just because you don't travel 40,000 miles without accruing some souveniers. The thing is, the jacket's been with me a long time. It was the first real motorcycling purchase I made, barring the bike itself. (I borrowed a helmet from a friend who'd given up riding.) And while I'll never feel fashionable or svelte in the thing, I will always feel secure and more often than not comfortable.
And now there's a tiny hole in the arm, and I have to wonder what the life expectancy is on this type of gear. It's not like my hockey equipment where if it's a little battered, that's okay and hockey tape will fix it right up to get me through another season. And that's sad. Because I am a sentimental girl, and I think I'll cry when I have to hang this baby up for good.