It Goes Where I Go

One thing I’ve learned over the years is that people love to ask questions. Well, most people. Sometimes it’s just a conversation starter. Sometimes it’s a way to express awe or appreciation. But sometimes, a question is born out of stupidity — not ignorance that seeks to learn, but plain old mouth-drooling, head-bobbing stupidity.

When I was in high school, my dad worked insane hours during the summer — comes with the underground construction territory. That left me with a lot of time on my hands. We ate a lot of venison growing up. In northwestern Minnesota, deer almost outnumber mosquitoes … almost. So that was our main source of protein. Freezer’s getting empty? Go shoot a deer.

One evening while Dad was working late, I did just that. Walked a few miles with my .22, found a spot, waited. One shot through the neck — dead. Pile of meat in the making. I gutted it, drained it as best I could, slung the deer over my back, and walked home. By the time Dad rolled in, the deer was skinned, butchered, and ready for wrapping and freezing. He looked at me and asked, “You did that?”
He knew damn well I did. The question wasn’t for information — it was awe. Admiration.

Then there are the good questions — the kind asked to reduce or correct ignorance. Like when your chemistry teacher starts explaining molar calculations and you’re sitting there thinking, what the fuck even is Avogadro’s number? Why is that many atoms or molecules a “standard” unit in this field that feels governed by magic? That’s the kind of question designed to fill a gap — to learn, to grow.

But then there are the other ones — the ones born from stupidity.
You know the type.

Your neighbor walks up while you’re covered in grease, oil, and brake dust, car up on jack stands.
“Working on your car, huh?”
Uh, yeah. What fucking clued you in?

Or someone sees the buck mounted on your wall.
“You shoot that?”
No, I held it down and tested it for allergies. When it came back positive for peanuts, I shoved Planters down its throat until it died of anaphylactic shock.

That automatic smart-ass response that sits ready on the tongue? That’s my instinct when people ask me if I rode in today, their face frozen in shock. They know the fucking answer — or should. I’ve got chaps on, a leather jacket, cheeks rosy from cold wind, probably still wearing my goddamn helmet.

But I get why they’re asking. They’re not stupid; they’re amazed. Amazed that anyone would ride when the temperatures turn uncomfortable. I know that’s how they mean it — but I hear it in the same tone as the idiot asking if I’m working on my car.

Have they not read my blog? They clearly don’t understand what riding is to me. It’s part of my soul. Not riding isn’t an option.

I can understand non-riders not getting it. But riders who don’t? That baffles the hell out of me. Do they not feel that same completeness when they’re on two wheels? That same peace — when the universe feels aligned and your soul knows it belongs?

Maybe that’s a relationship reserved for the sacred few, and I’m lucky enough to be among them. To me, riding is more than movement, more than wind, more than speed. It’s finding silent solace in chaos — riding until the motion and the noise make the world go still.
Peace.
Belonging.
Life.
Love.

Last night I went to a Judas Priest and Alice Cooper concert with my BFF. We almost took the bike, but Lilith’s down for brakes and a rotor, and Aurora isn’t built for two — not unless your ass is about an inch wide. So she drove, and I rode with.

You have to understand — I’m always on my bike. Always. I hardly ever ride in a car anymore, because not riding hurts my spirit. It’s like denying oxygen to my soul. But this time, I capitulated, for the greater good.

I went just over 24 hours without riding — and it damn near killed me.
The concert was phenomenal. Rob Halford is a fucking god, and Alice Cooper is a showman among showmen. The night was electric. But I still felt less than. The absence of a ride gnawed at me, made me anxious.

So as soon as I got home — as soon — I threw on my gear, fired up the bike, and rode. And fuck, it was like that first drink of cold water after a long hike in the desert. My body soaked it up. Didn’t matter that the temperature was dropping fast, that it was 45 degrees by the time I got home, that my hands and legs were cold. None of that mattered.
What mattered is that I was riding — no matter the cost.

So to take it full circle and answer the morning question burning in my coworkers’ minds:
Yes, I rode my motorcycle in today. I also rode it yesterday.
And I’ll goddamn be riding it tomorrow.

Because it’s not a toy. Not transportation. Not a motorsport.
It’s a part of me.
It goes where I go.