Don’t You Dare Tell Me To Stop Riding

It’s happened several times since the accident. The first few were inside the medical system — a doctor here, a nurse there, the occasional omnibenevolent aide trying to “comfort” me. But it’s happened outside the system too. The occasional “friend” who pretends to care, strangers who pretend to understand, acquaintances who pretend they’ve suddenly achieved some enlightened definition of what a “life well-lived” should look like.

And today, it happened again.

Brittney and I stopped by a local brewery — she grabbed a drink, I didn’t. I go there often just to eat, talk, exist among people again. One of the guys who works there happened to be in as a customer, and he’s always been nice. He saw me, struck up a conversation. There’s no hiding what happened to my face — the accident is written right into my skin.

At some point, I mentioned that I’m rethinking my helmet choice, given the extent of my facial injuries. He smirked, then laughed, and said:

“That’s the only thing you’re reconsidering?”

As if the suggestion — the audacity — is that I should reconsider riding altogether.

This idea pisses me off every single time.

First off, I didn’t cause this accident. Some other asshole did. I’ve already lost weeks of my life, my work, my mobility, and a chunk of my damn face because someone else failed to look where they were going. The bill for that mistake has already been paid — by me.

Anyone who knows me knows what riding means to me. It’s not a hobby. It’s not a toy. It is a necessary part of my soul. A necessary part of my existence.

Not riding isn’t an option.

Why the hell would I give up something that brings me peace, clarity, and presence — something that makes me feel alive — because someone else was careless?

Why does society always default to blaming the rider? Why do people act like the answer to danger is to hide, shrink, retreat?

Is that who we are now — a nation of people who panic at the idea of risk and call it wisdom?

“Oh, there’s danger? Better not live your life.”

Miss me with that cowardice.

Death brought me back to bikes. Death cracked my world open. Death reminded me that living isn’t passive — it requires intention, risk, awe, and a beating heart.

And you’re damn right I live each day like it’s my last. Because one day it will be. And when that day comes, I guarantee you I won’t regret leaning into the wind.

So no — I will not stop riding. I can’t stop riding. Suggesting otherwise is insulting at best.

Is the implication that the people who say this care more about my life than I do? Do they honestly think that? Or do they just think they’re smarter than me?

I evaluated the risks every single time I bought a bike — and I bought three within two years. I weighed it. I accepted it. I made an informed choice. That’s more than I can say for half the people behind the wheel of a car.

Where are the calls to re-educate car drivers so they actually see an 850-pound brightly lit motorcycle coming before pulling into traffic? Why isn’t that the conversation?

Why is the responsibility always dumped on the riders? Because we’re quieter? Because we don’t whine daily about our commute like car drivers do?

Fuck all of that.

Riding is a part of me. The part of me that breathes. The part that prays to the horizon. The part that survived death — and came back hungry for a life worth living.

I will not give that up. Not now. Not ever. Not without a fight. A fight to the death, if that’s what it takes.

Just saying.