Rest in Peace Briggs & Stratton

On Saturday, June 6^th, 2015 at 2:20 p.m., my Briggs & Stratton lawnmower passed away. He died a miserable death, choking and sputtering on a hot Texas afternoon, trying desperately to check the unconfronted growth of my front lawn. He is survived by a two year warranty, who never amounted to anything, a brand new air filter purchased in the vain hope of revival, and a passel of unfulfilled hope.

Briggs and Stratton was born a short year ago in June 2014 at 17 pounds, 6 ounces sporting a 2.5 inch bore and 1.75 inch stroke with 5.5 foot-pounds of torque. He was a bright, shiny, red with a black grass catcher. “Briggsy” was perfect out of the box, not a scratch or flaw on him. I remember how proud I felt walking Briggsy around the yard the first time, the envious stares I received from passersby, their compliments:

“That’s a fine young mower you have there.”

“He has the most beautiful muffler I’ve ever seen.”

“I love the way his engine revs when you throttle him.”

Unfortunately, those halcyon days weren’t meant to last. I could tell something was wrong the first time I took him out this season: he just wouldn’t start like he used to. Apparently, his appetite for regular gasoline and its high ethanol content had clogged his fuel line. The doctors at the fine medical facility of H. Depot told me he was going to be fine, but I knew even then something had changed. You don’t just bounce back like that from a major overhaul.

He seemed to be running well for a few weeks, but a strange coughing alerted me to another health crisis. I filled him with the best 5W30 money could buy, but it was too much for him. He belched out a ferocious cloud of white smoke and sputtered hot, black oil from his exhaust pipe. His growl became a whimper and stopped. Just like that, he was gone.

Briggsy didn’t have many hobbies or interests outside of his work. In his spare time, he liked to lay around the garage with his spark plug unplugged. He enjoyed the occasional cold water hose-down, and his favorite meal was a full tank of gas and a dash of oil. His only other friends were an old rake and a bicycle pump.

A clotted carburetor cut down Briggsy far too soon, in the prime of life. It was a sad sight to see him lying there, covered in a thick film of dirt and patches of grass, smoking, and reeking of burnt oil,. I prefer not to remember him that way. I’ll always maintain the vision I had of him when he was young and spry, bright and shiny, a symbol of hope and emasculated crab grass to all.

Rest in Peace, Briggsy. You’ll be missed. Send WD-40 in lieu of flowers.