El Paso, Heat, and a Little Bit of Healing
Sometimes you don’t need to burn your life down. Sometimes you just need to ride far enough to remember who the hell you are.
Running South
I’m coming up on five months since the accident. Five fucking months. And just when I thought I was clawing my way back, life decided to remind me that sometimes the hardest hits don’t come from the road… they come from people.
The Pain You Don’t Notice
Sometimes the most dangerous pain isn’t the sharp kind that makes you scream. It’s the quiet kind that hums in the background for so long you stop noticing it. After months of recovery from a crash, I discovered just how much pain my body had quietly learned to live with.
Stop Calling It An Accident
We use the word “accident” like an emotional airbag. It cushions the blow, softens accountability, and blurs the line between negligence and chance. But most of what we label accidental is entirely predictable, and preventable.
The Long Way Around Ego
I lost my temper at a Harley service counter over a warranty repair. I wasn’t wrong to be frustrated, but I didn’t love who I was in that moment. Sometimes humility takes the long way around, but it usually gets there.
The Legal Gladiator Lie
Hollywood sold us a fantasy: lawyers as warriors, justice as inevitable. What I learned after my motorcycle crash is that personal injury law isn’t a battlefield. It’s a ballroom, and the dance is already choreographed.
Free Enough to Complain
I rode all day in freezing sun, hands numb, coffee in my veins, donuts as fuel. And downtown? Protestors. Two years later, still marching like the sky fell. Here’s what I actually saw: a free country loud enough to complain inside it.
What Would You Say?
If I ever sat across from the woman who hit me, what would I say? I’m not sure I’d say anything at all. I think I’d just hand her the story and let her decide who she wants to be next.
Goddamned Appointments
I survived the crash. I survived the hospital. Now I’m just trying to survive the goddamned appointments long enough to get back to being me.
What Harley Is Actually Selling
Harley-Davidson doesn’t sell motorcycles. If they did, Honda would win every time. What they sell is muscle, grit, and the permission to make a machine your own. And sometimes, they forget that.
I’m Making Heat Again
After my crash, my body stopped running hot. Rooms felt cold. Nights needed blankets. Riding felt different. I think my body redirected every spare ounce of energy toward survival. But tonight, in the middle of the night, one leg kicked out from under the covers, I realized something simple and powerful: I’m making heat again.
The Part I Can’t Remember Still Won’t Let Me Go
I don’t remember the accident. That’s the part that still eats at me. The details are gone, but the questions aren’t, and every new inference feels like reopening a wound that never fully closed.
The Keeper of the Speed
Fresh from cardiology, defibrillator checked and heart cleared for duty, I rolled into my subdivision only to be greeted by the self-appointed Keeper of the Speed. Apparently retirement now comes with hand signals and moral authority. I had thoughts. My exhaust had volume.
Torque Therapy
Four days of throttle therapy. Mild workouts, no routine, and a chrome-plated monster named Aurora reminding Santa Fe what torque feels like. Now I’m staring at camshafts like a junkie looking for the next hit.
Nyx Becoming
Before the accident, I had two bikes I loved. After, I felt stripped bare. This weekend, installing parts in my living room and standing back to stare at Nyx, that feeling finally came back. This is what restoration looks like.
Two in the Morning, and Not Done Yet
The lawyers are done. The insurance companies ran their formulas. The paperwork closed. But four months after nearly losing my life, my body isn’t finished. Healing doesn’t move at the speed of settlements. It moves at the speed of scar tissue. In the meantime? I build.
The Bell
Motorcycles and superstition go hand in hand. From sailors to submariners to bikers, we all carry rituals into the unknown. I never bought my own gremlin bell, that’s not how it works. It has to be gifted. Lilith didn’t have one. Nyx does. And whether you believe in energy, God, tradition, or simple human love disguised as metal, sometimes protection sounds like a tiny bell ringing against the wind.
Love, Red Chile, and the Second Amendment
I walked into a diner drenched in pink and red hearts wearing a black Second Amendment tank top and boots. Best red chile in town on the way. Valentine’s Day might be a corporate fever dream, but freedom? That’s real. And sometimes the most absurd breakfast scene says more about pluralism than any political debate ever could.
I Think I’m Afraid of the Dark Now
I don’t remember the accident, but my body does. And when the sun goes down and the headlights start moving faster than trust can keep up, the dark doesn’t feel neutral anymore.