I’m Coming To Get You

The day started... smoothly, believe it or not.

The morning was absolutely gorgeous. Every day this week the monsoon rains have cooled things off overnight, and each ride to work has started with that perfect crisp air that makes me want to stay on the bike instead of going to the office. Traffic was light, and what little there was almost seemed to cooperate. Cars actually saw me. They moved over without drama, like Moses himself was parting the Red Sea for a black Harley. And Nyx... she was in her element, her Milwaukee-Eight screaming like a banshee every time I rolled on the throttle.

I got to work early, my throat, body, and soul all demanding that first cup of coffee. Still dressed in my riding gear, I made a beeline for the Keurig and filled my mug before heading outside to a picnic table near the front entrance.

I had a new employee starting that morning.

Oddly enough, I found myself a little nervous. Not because I was meeting someone new. That doesn't bother me. I was nervous because I couldn't remember what she looked like. I was texting another employee who'd been on the interview panel, trying to get a description, but eventually we both settled on the obvious conclusion. It was Friday. Half the lab was off because of the 9/80 schedule. Whoever walked toward the front door at eight o'clock was probably going to be her.

Turns out I recognized her immediately.

She recognized me too.

I joke all the time that I may not remember people, but they always seem to remember me. Being a six-foot-tall transgender woman tends to make you a little more memorable than you'd sometimes like. It's usually good for a laugh, but there's also a little truth buried in the joke.

I walked her through the building, showed her how the badge readers worked, pointed out the coffee, the refrigerator, the snack area, and eventually we settled into the conference room with fresh cups of coffee.

We spent the morning talking.

Not just about the job she was inheriting, but about where she wanted her career to go. She's just getting started, but I wanted her to know from day one that my job isn't just to supervise her. It's to help her become whatever she wants to become. We talked about the team she'd joined, the systems she'd be responsible for, and the challenges ahead.

By lunchtime, I knew we'd hired the right person.

I took her to one of my favorite little coffee shops for espresso and pastries, and we talked some more. She's incredibly smart, and I genuinely enjoy being surrounded by smart people. Looking around my team these days, that's become the norm. They're intelligent, curious, engaged people, and I feel incredibly fortunate to lead them. More importantly, I want every one of them to know they're supported. That they're heard. That they matter.

You don't build that through policy.

You build it one genuine conversation at a time.

After lunch, I headed home to finish the workday from my home office before packing Nyx for the weekend.

The plan was simple. Finish work. Load the bike. Ride to Dawna. Spend the weekend looking at houses together.

Life had other ideas.

When work was over, I rolled Nyx out of the garage, thumbed the starter, whispered my usual little prayer for a safe ride, and headed north.

The ride started exactly the way the morning had. Maybe a little... spirited. Nyx and I were both feeling good, and the speedometer probably wandered into territory that would make a state trooper smile.

Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn't.

The engine stumbled once.

Then again.

Then the throttle just... quit.

The engine was still running, but twisting the grip did absolutely nothing. I was suddenly coasting down the interstate, watching my speed bleed away while trying to figure out what the hell was happening.

A few seconds later the engine died completely.

I coasted onto the shoulder and started trying the usual fixes.

Key off.

Key on.

Try again.

Nothing.

Apparently this wasn't one of those IT problems where rebooting fixes everything.

She wouldn't fucking start.

I called Dawna first.

Then the tow truck.

Priorities.

The tow company said it'd be about ninety minutes.

Well... What else was I going to do?

Dawna offered to come get me.

At first I resisted. I hated the idea of making her drive all the way to Santa Fe, then all the way back home, then repeat the whole thing again to get me back on Sunday.

But I also really wanted to see her.

I missed her.

So I finally told her that if she really wanted to come, I wouldn't argue.

Truth be told, I would love it.

While I waited, I entertained myself.

I took pictures.

Made a stupid little Instagram video.

Then I stretched out on the bike. I've done it before. The side stand can handle it. Feet on the highway pegs. Head resting against the sissy bar pad.

I closed my eyes.

Then I felt the bike moving.

Son of a bitch. Twice in two fucking days.

The shoulder sloped away from the road just enough that my weight slowly pulled Nyx past the point of no return.

Down she went.

Again.

Thankfully, ten thousand dollars' worth of engine guards and saddlebag guards proved they weren't just expensive decorations. The bike was fine.

My pride... Less so.

This time, though, I had something I hadn't had yesterday: Time.

So I did what every engineer eventually does: I opened YouTube.

I watched a couple of videos on how to pick up a nine-hundred-pound motorcycle. Apparently it isn't about strength. It's about technique.

I turned the handlebars, planted my feet, grabbed the saddlebag guard, leaned my back into the seat, and started driving with my legs.

Holy fucking hell... It worked. Little by little, Nyx started coming back upright until she settled onto her side stand like nothing had happened.

Standing there on the shoulder of the interstate beside a broken Harley, I couldn't help but grin. I'd just picked up my own bike. That felt pretty damned good.

Somewhere in all of this I'd texted the fab shop to see if they could squeeze me in next week.

Even though they'd already closed for the day, the owner called me.

"Go wiggle the throttle body connector," he said.

Apparently it's a known issue.

I wiggled it. Nothing.

Then I pushed down on it.

Nyx fired right up.

Well... Shit.

I cancelled the tow truck, kissed goodbye the non-refundable $150 deposit, and limped the bike back toward Santa Fe.

She stalled twice along the way. Each time I pushed on the connector. Each time she came back to life.

I wasn't about to trust her for another couple hundred miles. So I stuck with Plan Dawna.

And she never hesitated. She simply said, "I'm coming to get you."

Then she did.

That probably doesn't sound remarkable to everyone reading this.

But it was to me.

My past has left me with more than a little baggage when it comes to depending on people. Somewhere along the way I learned that asking for help usually came with strings attached.

Not this time. Not with her.

She didn't sigh. She didn't complain. She didn't make me feel guilty. She just got in her car and came to get me.

God, I fucking love that woman.

Not because she rescued me. Because she never treated me like I was a burden.

By the time we pulled into the hotel parking lot we were both exhausted.

But we were together.

The motorcycle had broken. But the weekend hadn't.

Today we'll go look at houses together. The first real step toward deciding where we're going to build our life.

Funny how life works. Yesterday it tested a wiring connector. Today it's testing our future.

I'm not worried about either one anymore. The connector will get fixed.

As for the future? I think we've got that handled.