It Goes Where I Go, Part II: The Soundtrack of a Lived Life
Music has always been the pulse of my life — from my dad’s old record cabinet to the roar of Judas Priest echoing through an arena. Somewhere along the way, my father’s house fell silent, but I can’t let that happen to me. I sing at the top of my lungs when I ride, because every note is a reminder that I’m still here — still breathing, still living, still loud.
It Goes Where I Go
People love to ask questions. Some are born of curiosity, some from awe — and some from pure, unfiltered stupidity. Like asking if I “rode in today” when I’m standing there in chaps, leather, and helmet hair. For me, riding isn’t a hobby; it’s oxygen. It’s the pulse under my skin. It’s what makes the world go silent and my soul come alive.
We Are Not The Same
One ride. One crash. One picture that lit a fire.
I don’t want to be your ally. I don’t want to be your therapist. I already came out, did the work, and live it every day. Don’t text me a photo of you playing pretend and expect applause. We are not the same.
American Roulette
A cold morning ride, coffee with a colleague, and a breakfast date that turned into a protest invite — another reminder that dating in your fifties is American Roulette, and I’m better off riding solo.
Rolling Stops and Righteous Fools
Motorcyclists live in a world full of backseat drivers and badge-wielding experts who don’t know the first thing about the ride. Two stories, one truth: people love to police what they don’t understand — but sometimes, justice still rolls on two wheels.
Maybe You’re Not as Tough as You Think
People today act tougher than reality should allow. Social media and the safety of steel car doors have given cowards the confidence to run their mouths like they’re Bruce Lee or Clint Eastwood, despite bodies that couldn’t back up a single word. I see it most on the road — like the frail woman who flipped me off and screamed from the safety of her SUV, convinced she was invincible. We’ve created a chickenshit society that hides behind cops, cars, and comment sections, where people mistake barking for bravery and think they can write checks their bodies can’t cash.
Hollywood Lies: Volume II
Hollywood calls it “entertainment.” I call it propaganda. From self-surgery as a badge of honor to cars that explode at the slightest nudge, from gymnastic gunfights to hackers who break into the Pentagon in 14 seconds — the myths keep coming. And people believe them. These aren’t harmless movie tropes; they shape how we think, vote, and talk about the world. Here are five more ways Hollywood is full of shit — and why it matters more than you think.
Cold on Cold on Cold
I’ve seen fifty-five below in Minnesota winters, but I’ve never been as cold as I was that day riding north from El Paso. Spiderwebs of pain crawling through my thighs, trash bag under a sweatshirt, stopping every thirty minutes just to warm up — cold on cold on cold. And when I finally thawed out? I still got back on the bike that night. Because the cold doesn’t change the truth. I ride. That’s who I am. That’s what I do.
We’re Just Trying To Pee
America has a problem. A big problem. A huge — pronounced YOU-dge — problem. Politicians spin it, pundits sensationalize it, and suddenly transgender people needing to pee is treated like the nation’s biggest crisis. I’m not an activist. I’m not out here waving signs on the street. I’m just trying to live my life. But when the laws, the headlines, and the mobs all turn something as basic as a bathroom into a battleground, it’s time to pick up the pen — because we’re simply trying to pee.
Three Times
Three times the universe decided to baptize me in rain on what was supposed to be my free day. Intern lunches, tattoo sessions, Harley rides, and sudden storms—it turned into a test of grit, irritation, and freedom all at once.
One Week In
After more than five years working from home, I walked back into the office. Day one, rookie mistake: no lunch. My boss asked if I liked spicy food. Minutes later I was sweating through a cup of ghost pepper noodles, stubbornly slurping the broth he told me not to drink. And I’d do it again.
That Too Is Legacy
A late-night ride, a wave of doubt, and a message from an old Navy friend—reminding me the seeds of legacy were planted long before I knew I’d need them.
Servant To Self
The life of a writer is lonely—by choice. Solitude isn’t about shutting people out, it’s about diving deep into worlds and characters that demand every ounce of focus. This is why I disappear, and why I had to choose me.
Me and My Watch
Schedules are my kryptonite. Creativity is my fire. The problem? Writing for a living requires both—and nothing makes me want to curse humanity more than penciling “Thursday at 5” into my calendar.