I told FarmWife that I simply CAN'T pull a tire anymore. It's just too scary. I pull a travois just fine, but the sound of that horrible, heavy thing dragging behind me is just too much. I told FarmWife that I actually want one of these:
She says fine, and that I can have a sulky, no problem, and that she'll even take me to the beach, but that I'm going to have to pull obtuse, rubbery things until I earn my wheels.
The folks at Road's End Driving use a mudcrawler—a vehicle made of 2x4s and rubber stall mats. Apparently this vehicle is so heavy and awkward that there is virtually no way to wreck it, and somehow FarmWife thinks that this sort of vehicle would make a nice intermediary between tires and sulkies. I, on the other hoof, think that the royal State Landau would suit me nicely.
One thing is certain—there is no plowing in my immediate future. I am in no mental state to be hitched to a sharp metal object.
For now, we're taking a step back. FarmWife is going to try to bump up the frequency of my sessions from twice to five times per week, and we're going to ground drive around Wickersham until we wear grooves in the pavement. When I've made a million turns 'round the neighborhood, we'll invite the tire along again.