“Damn, honey bun. You look awful.”

I kept driving, assuming my mate would explain her observation. I hoped perhaps she got distracted and left a word out. Perhaps she meant to say, “Damn, honey bun. You look awful handsome, or sexy, or smart.” Actually, I would accept most anything other than just “awful.”

But with no clarification coming, and without taking my eyes off the road, I dared to ask, “What looks so awful about me?”

“All those scars on your hands and arms. You look like Frankenstein.” I glanced down and could not disagree.

We were heading south in our full metal tent (camper) through Utah. The sun was in the west and shining through the passenger-side window onto the right side of my torso. For some reason the lighting, coupled with the coating of dust and pollen from our just finished bike ride, seemed to emphasize every injury, or age-caused, imperfection on my skin. Considered in their entirety, my hands and arms looked like those on a med-school practice cadaver.

Later in the day, after a shower and change of clothing, we sat in lawn chairs and watched the sun drop behind the Tushars. Even though the lighting was more flattering, and having the luxury of sitting rather than driving, I was able to consider more closely the havoc several decades of sun, fun and falling down have left on my hands and arms. To be clear, the same results could be seen on my calves and thighs, but since Ellie was still eating I kept my pants on.

Sitting there with the benefit of hindsight and rye whiskey, I reflected on the biography of scars of an uncoordinated life. But I will say, most of those skin imperfections were a result of doing something that I enjoyed right up to the point of impact.

I noticed a two-inch long line, well-faded and thin, that I remember getting as a little kid. It was caused by a nail while I was climbing through a window in an abandoned building. There was a quarter-size half-circle from several summers ago earned by riding too close to a barbed wire fence. A third was a battle wound suffered in the line of duty, when I tripped and fell while carrying a tray of wine glasses when I was serving time as a waiter.

Here in the mountains, I am not alone.

Visitors aside, it would be difficult to go to a local coffee shop, gym or event and not see the scars of a life well lived. It amazes me when I travel to places more civilized and lower in elevation when I encounter folks my age whose bodies are plump, yet unblemished. That is not to say they are undamaged. What is less obvious, and more hurtful, are the scars we all carry that are unseen.

“Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle you know nothing about.” Though some attribute that quote to Plato, truth is, he never said that. But he did say a bunch of other smart stuff — Google  him. Truth is, no one knows who in fact said that — but no truer words have ever been spoken.

While the mutilations of our skin are often a result of passion and play and can fade and even heal, that is not always the case of emotional scars. Now granted some past pains — broken hearts, petty embarrassments, mental missteps — fade with time. For instance, I know a guy who gave a speech in front of his entire high school and later discovered his fly was down. Though initially devastated, it was only a few years later when he could laugh about it. (OK, that was me.) But there is no one alive who can escape collecting some internal scrapes and scratches, some more damaging than others.

Those wounds are not so quick to heal. Those are lesions we have to acknowledge — how they affect our behavior and attitude even decades after the offense. As important as those unseen wounds are in others, that might not be an excuse for bad behavior, but it is most certainly a contributing factor. 

But getting back to the surface mutilations that many of us locals carry. Be they wrinkles, scars, barnacles or other skin imperfections caused by years lived or cuts or distraction, I find them beautiful. Because it is those scars that define our lives and reflect our lifestyles, like the wrinkles around the eyes caused by smiling and laughter. 

But after saying all that, I will admit that, in certain circles and under certain lighting, I will slip on a long-sleeved shirt.

Jeffrey Bergeron’s column “Biff America” publishes Mondays in the Summit Daily News. Bergeron has worked in TV and radio for more than 30 years, and his column can be read in several newspapers and magazines. He is the author of “Mind, Body, Soul.” Bergeron arrived in Breckenridge when there was plenty of parking and no stoplights. Contact him at biffbreck@yahoo.com.