So I recently walked into the barn and counted the number of internal combustion engines thereby residing therein: eleven. How is this possible, you ask? Well, a man has certain needs, and these often revolve around the urge to cut, hew, chop, mow, and otherwise vanquish the greenery of Vermont. ( Yes, I know I said ‘man’, just let this one go, please – it’s a narrative thing.) You got your weed-whackers, your zero-turn, your bush hog, and your walking mower. Then you got you