I Don’t Hear “No,” and I Don’t Quit
I woke up one morning about halfway through my recovery from this accident absolutely burning with the need to do something.
Everything about the crash felt unfair. Not emotionally unfair, but structurally unfair.
The minimum required liability coverage in New Mexico is a joke. It wouldn’t even begin to cover an office visit, much less a helicopter ride to a Level 1 trauma center. The woman who hit me was fully legal to drive. She carried the minimum insurance required by law. And yet, her coverage barely scratched the surface of the medical bills I accumulated.
That’s what “legal” looks like in this state.
There was evidence the driver may have been drinking before the crash. But because alcohol and drug testing is left to officer discretion, she wasn’t tested.
I was.
Let that sink in for a second.
I did nothing wrong. I was following the law. I was minding my own business. And yet I was the one tested, scrutinized, and medically wrecked, while the person who caused the crash walked away untouched, uninterrupted, and unaccountable.
That’s when the anger turned into purpose.
I had just finished my memoir. I was still raw. Still healing. Still unable to just sit still and accept what had happened. And I thought to myself: What if I actually did something about this?
Not a rant. Not a complaint. An initiative.
A motorcycle safety and fairness initiative focused on legislation. On policy. On fixing the broken shit that makes recovering from a motorcycle accident harder than it already is. On addressing the systems that quietly punish riders while pretending to be neutral.
I started brainstorming. Writing things down. Sketching ideas. When I read them to friends and family, I mostly got polite nods.
“Hmm. That’s nice.”
What they didn’t understand is that once I see something clearly, really clearly, I don’t let it go. That’s not how I’m wired.
So I kept revising. Adding. Refining. Cutting the noise. What started as a handful of ideas turned into a real, coherent overview of what needs to change in this state. Something solid. Something defensible.
And today, I found myself building a website.
Why a website?
Because I’m not stupid.
If I walk into a state senator’s or representative’s office alone and start talking, I probably won’t get far. One voice is easy to ignore. Thirty thousand are not.
My goal is simple: between now and the January 2027 legislative session, I want to collect 30,000 signatures from New Mexico residents who support the core ideas behind this initiative. Real people. Real names. Real addresses. Proof that this matters.
So today, I started building the infrastructure to make that happen.
It’s funny, you’d think the people who know me best would understand this by now. I don’t hear the word “no.” I hear “not yet.” And when I commit to something that matters, I don’t quit. I don’t drift. I don’t forget.
I will this shit into existence.
What I’m Building:
That effort has a name now: RIDEST (Rider Infrastructure, Driver Education, and State Tourism) initiative.
RIDEST is an initiative to make New Mexico biker-friendly and biker-safe. Not by piling on more rules, but by making the ones we already have fair.
It focuses on things like:
fair liability standards when motorists injure riders
real accountability after crashes
evidence-based safety policy instead of assumptions
improved awareness, training, and infrastructure
and positioning New Mexico as a motorcycle-friendly destination that actually respects riders
The website isn’t live yet, but it will be shortly. When it is, it will include an overview of the initiative and a way for New Mexicans to add their name in support.
If you ride. If you care about fairness. If you’re tired of watching people get wrecked twice, once by the crash, and again by the system, keep an eye out.
This isn’t a rant.
It’s the beginning of something.
