I’m Making Heat Again

I’m making heat again.

What the fuck is she talking about? Has she lost her goddamned mind?

No.

My body is making heat again.

When I first came back to riding, I rode everywhere. Rain, wind, low temps, it didn’t matter. If I let weather dictate my freedom, I’d be a smaller version of myself. So I didn’t.

But there’s riding … and then there’s what riding does to a body.

For the first six to eight months, I was cold. Not “oh it’s brisk out” cold. I’m talking deep, marrow-level cold. Sixty degrees at highway speed turns into hypothermia practice if you’re not paying attention. Yes, I learned to cover the fuck up. Eventually.

I ride all winter. Snow and ice are the only veto.

I’ve been soaked through in summer rain and then frozen dry by the wind. I’ve ridden in the twenties until my fingers went numb and throbbed, pulled over, warmed up, then rode again. I’ve sat roadside at forty-five degrees, shaking, waiting to thaw enough to continue.

And something happened.

My body adapted.

It started generating more heat. I’d walk indoors and be hot as hell while everyone else reached for sweaters. My furnace ran high. The cold stopped owning me.

Then the accident.

Healing isn’t passive. It’s expensive. Energy expensive.

Suddenly rooms felt cold again. Nights needed blankets. When I got back in the saddle, I froze like I hadn’t been riding for years. People joked it was the hardware in my body, the new metal additions. Maybe. But I don’t think so.

I think my body redirected every spare watt toward repair.

Pins in a foot. Soft tissue trying to remember how to be soft. Nerves rewiring. Muscle rebuilding.

Heat wasn’t priority. Healing was.

And now? Lying here in the middle of the goddamned night, one leg kicked out from under the covers because I’m running hot again… it feels like a milestone.

Small. Quiet. Not lawyer-worthy.

But real.

I’m making heat again. And that feels like getting something back.