A Good Fucking Day

I’m not going to lie: today was a good fucking day. Times three.

First: work.

I fucked up a little, sure. But for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel like my brain was running through molasses. I felt engaged. Awake. Like the gears were meshing instead of grinding. Time will be the final arbiter of truth here, but today? Today I didn’t feel like a TBI victim. Today, I felt like a valuable team member. Working with professionals. In a space built on mutual respect.

It felt fucking nice.

Was it the same as before the accident? No. But I’m not the same either, so maybe one necessitates the other. I don’t fucking know. What I do know is that it still felt good, and that counts.

Second: Nyx.

I was stuck in a meeting that ran long (because of course it did) when my personal phone started ringing. I silenced it, muttered my apologies, flipped the phone face-down so the caller name wouldn’t become public knowledge, and waited it out.

When the meeting finally wrapped, I checked my phone.

The Fab Shop. In Santa Fe.

Excuse me, what the fuck?

Yeah. Pipes, air cleaner, and ECM are in. I called them back immediately and we lined up a drop-off time. And just like that, the countdown officially started.

By the time I get the bike back, with her new throaty, unapologetic attitude, my seat, sissy bar, and luggage rack should be arriving. I’ll install those, measure for the windshield, order that, and then?

Then the weather turns.

And Nyx will be standing there in her newfound glory. A bike fully realized. Power and confidence wrapped in something dark and a little ominous. Not loud for attention, loud because it means it.

I can’t fucking wait.

There’s a strange footnote to all of this, though. Before the accident? I rode in stupid cold. Single digits. No problem. Twenty degrees was just “layer better.” Last winter, I rode. After the accident? Below 30 is rough. And if I’m being honest, even 30–40 starts to wear on me after a while. I don’t know what that means yet. I don’t have a conclusion. It’s just a data point.

Third: RIDEST.

When I got home, the rack cards and square business cards I ordered for the RIDEST initiative were waiting for me. When I placed the order, the system kept screaming about low-resolution graphics. I ignored it and ordered small batches anyway: 50 of one, 25 of the other. Or vice versa. Whatever.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

They turned out amazing.

Clean. Sharp. Professional. Exactly the kind of thing that doesn’t get thrown away the moment someone touches it. I was so impressed I immediately ordered another hundred of each.

Now the real work starts.

This week I’ll hit Harley in Santa Fe and Albuquerque. Next weekend, Indian in Albuquerque. Probably that biker coffee shop too, because this is as good a reason as any.

You’ve gotta have goals, right?

So yeah. A good fucking day.

And after a long stretch of hard ones, I’ll take that win exactly as it shows up.