Fifty-Four

I have so much to say after this amazing weekend, but it would be unfair to you, the reader, if I just dumped all of my thoughts into one giant pile and expected you to sort them out. So instead, I'll stretch this out over a few posts.

Or, as the Mandalorian says, "This is the way."

For those of you who are current on the saga, you know that Nyx, my Harley Road Glide, decided late last week that she no longer wished to participate in my weekend plans. You also know that I had every intention of riding to Colorado to spend my birthday weekend with the woman I love.

So Friday morning was... hectic.

I was up before dawn, in Albuquerque by seven to pick up the nearest motorcycle trailer I could find, then straight through Santa Fe and up to Los Alamos. I got to work, recruited a couple of coworkers, and together we loaded Nyx onto the trailer.

And that's where something happened that every woman reading this will immediately understand.

This was my truck. My trailer. My motorcycle. My ratchet straps.

I have trailered motorcycles before. I've strapped them down before. I know exactly how to do it.

But the moment two men arrived to help, I was quietly relieved of duty.

Operation "That's Not Going Anywhere" was underway.

One of them clearly knew what he was doing. The other... well... he certainly possessed confidence. I wasn't invited anywhere near the straps. It wasn't malicious. It was just one of those funny little moments where being perceived as female means people suddenly decide you must not know how to secure your own motorcycle.

I smiled. I thanked them. I let them help.

Sometimes accepting kindness is easier than fighting assumptions.

Once Nyx was safely home, I returned the trailer, packed a backpack, climbed onto Aurora, and finally pointed north.

Almost immediately, everything that had frustrated me that morning disappeared.

That's what motorcycles do.

That's what love does.

Every mile carried me closer to Dawna, and somewhere between Santa Fe and the Colorado state line, I realized I wasn't riding toward a destination. I was riding toward home.

Because I was on Aurora instead of Nyx, I was backpacking it. That meant bringing only the absolute essentials. No saddlebags. No windshield. No leather jacket rolled up for emergencies. Probably not my finest planning.

About halfway there, the sky decided to remind me that plans are merely suggestions.

The rain started.

Then the temperature dropped.

Then the wind picked up.

I was wearing nothing more than a thin long-sleeve sun shirt under my leather vest. Before long, freezing rain hammered every exposed inch of my body.

The water was fucking cold.

That's the scientific term.

The wind generated by Aurora made it worse. I had my bandana pulled up over my face. The rain soaked it until every breath felt like I was trying to inhale through a wet towel. There was intermittent hail, and by the time I reached southeastern Colorado, piles of white ice still sat in the ditches from storms that had rolled through before me.

I was miserable. Absolutely miserable.

And I never once considered slowing down. Because every mile I covered meant one mile closer to her.

Love creates urgency. Or maybe surviving death creates urgency.

Probably both.

When you've flatlined three times... when you've nearly died on a motorcycle... tomorrow stops feeling like a guarantee. You stop assuming there will always be another weekend. Another ride. Another opportunity.

You go. You don't wait.

By the time I arrived, she had already left for work.

The universe had won that particular round.

So I unpacked my backpack, made a supply run to La Junta, stocked up on snacks and, naturally, enough flavored sparkling water to satisfy my very sophisticated palate, showered, warmed up, and then spent some time washing and waxing Aurora because... well... I'm a little obsessive about shiny motorcycles.

Then I waited.

And when she finally walked through the door...

Everything else disappeared.

I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to describe what I feel when I'm around her.

Complete isn't the right word.

Happy doesn't quite cover it.

Peace comes closer.

It's like there's been a constant ache inside me my entire life, one I became so accustomed to carrying that I forgot it was even there.

Then she walked into my life.

Or maybe more accurately... I finally allowed myself to see the love that had been standing there for years.

She doesn't just love me. She chooses me. She wants to be in the room with me. Not because she needs something from me. Not because there are expectations. Not because I'm useful. She simply wants to share life with me.

That is such a foreign feeling that, at times, I still don't quite know what to do with it.

I've spent most of my life being miserable.

I grew up surrounded by addiction. I learned early that alcohol solved feelings, or at least postponed them. By high school I'd become pretty damn good at drinking away pain and pretending everything was fine.

Then I joined the Navy. Which, back then, wasn't exactly known for promoting moderation.

I carried that misery into adulthood.

Into marriage.

Into relationships where I accepted far less than I deserved because somewhere along the way I convinced myself that asking to be loved fully was asking too much.

I accepted being hidden. I accepted being second. I accepted one-sided relationships. I accepted unhappiness because unhappiness had become familiar.

Then came the cardiac arrests.

Then came the motorcycle accident.

Then came learning how to walk again.

Somewhere inside all of that suffering, I finally had to confront an uncomfortable truth: Life wasn't making me miserable anymore. I was.

Not intentionally. Not maliciously. But I had become so accustomed to surviving that I had forgotten I was actually allowed to be happy.

Yesterday I turned fifty-four. I've never really cared much about birthdays. My mom did all the work that day. It always seemed strange to celebrate myself simply for managing not to die another year.

Dawna sees birthdays differently. She treats them like her own personal New Year. Every birthday is an opportunity to decide who she wants to become over the next year. New goals. New promises. A fresh beginning.

God, I love that about her. She isn't afraid to see the world differently.

So I think I'm stealing her tradition. My birthday resolution is happiness. Not another promotion. Not another motorcycle. Not another accomplishment. Happiness. Real happiness. The kind that comes from finally allowing someone to love me. The kind that comes from loving someone without fear. The kind that comes from living fully in the moment instead of constantly preparing for the next disaster.

That first night, as we lay in bed, she quietly rubbed lotion into my skin. The rain had dried me out. My body was sore from the ride. She wasn't trying to impress me. She wasn't expecting anything in return. She was simply taking care of me.

And somewhere in those quiet moments, with her hands gently caring for a body that's been broken more than once, I found myself standing on the edge of tears.

Not because of the lotion. Because of what it represented.

For perhaps the first time in my life... I wasn't merely surviving. I was being loved.

Completely.

Freely.

Joyfully.

For fifty-three years, survival was enough.

I don't think it is anymore.

I think fifty-four is going to be about something entirely different. I think fifty-four is going to be the year I finally allow myself to live.