Letting Off the Throttle

I found myself letting off the throttle this weekend.

Anyone who knows me understands the significance of that statement.

Normally, when I ride, I'm looking for the edge. Not recklessly. Not stupidly. But I enjoy the dance that happens between power, precision, and awareness. I enjoy the feeling of being fully present in the moment, the world shrinking down to the next curve, the next vehicle, the next decision.

This weekend was different.

I found myself deliberately slowing down, trying to squeeze every second I could from the moment.

I don't know how many riders participated in the poker run. Fifty? Sixty? Somewhere in that neighborhood. What I do know is that many of them were veterans. My people. Men and women who volunteered to serve something larger than themselves when they were barely more than kids. The poker run was raising money for a local children's cause, and by all accounts it raised a substantial amount of money.

Good people riding motorcycles to help kids.

Imagine that.

Not exactly the image Hollywood likes to paint.

My girlfriend was riding on the back all day, and somewhere between the first stop and the last, I realized I wasn't riding for the ride anymore. I was riding for the moment.

I was being goofy-ass me. Singing at the top of my lungs. Dancing to the music. Enjoying the wind. Enjoying her laughter. Enjoying the simple act of sharing an experience with someone I love.

And my God, do I love her.

A few times during the ride, she wrapped her arms around me and rested her head on my shoulder.

And I melted every single time.

For someone who has spent years starving for touch, starving for connection, there was something almost overwhelming about it. Not sexual. Not dramatic. Just the simple act of being wanted. The simple act of knowing she wanted to be close.

Every time she did it, my heart turned into a puddle.

I have opened up to this woman in ways I never have with another human being. I've shown her parts of myself that I've hidden from the world for decades. My fears. My doubts. My hopes. My scars.

She doesn't judge. She doesn't try to explain me to myself. She doesn't try to fix me.

She simply sits beside me in it all and offers her steady reassurance.

That matters to me more than I can adequately describe.

There are moments when we're together that I find myself sitting on the front edge of a tear. Not because I'm sad. Not because anything is wrong. Quite the opposite.

It's because my soul feels full.

Complete.

Settled.

As we rode from stop to stop, I found myself content to sit in the pack. Just cruising. Enjoying the air. Enjoying her presence. Hell, even enjoying the heat.

And my fucking God was it fucking hot.

Normally I'd be searching for open road, looking for opportunities to move through traffic and disappear into the distance. Instead, I found myself content to simply exist exactly where I was.

That realization hit me harder than I expected.

For most of my life, I've been trying to get somewhere. Trying to accomplish something. Trying to prove something.

Trying to outrun something.

This weekend, I wasn't trying to do any of that.

I was just happy.

The other thing that struck me was the incredible acceptance I continue to find within the biker community.

Hollywood has done bikers a tremendous disservice. The stereotype is ridiculous.

The reality is that most bikers are some of the most accepting people you'll ever meet. They don't care what you look like. They don't care who you love. They don't care where you came from.

They care whether you're genuine. They care whether you respect other people. They care whether you're willing to extend the same freedom to others that you demand for yourself.

That's it.

The biker community is one of the most genuinely libertarian groups I've ever encountered. Live and let live. Respect the individual. Respect freedom. Respect the ride. The rest tends to sort itself out.

The day after the poker run, I took my girlfriend back to one of the restaurants we'd visited during the event. While we were eating, a couple of riders walked in and immediately recognized us from the ride.

Within minutes, they were inviting us to ride with them up to Pueblo.

Not because they knew us. Not because they wanted anything. Just because that's what bikers do.

We declined. I was heading back to New Mexico later that day. But the invitation stuck with me.

People helping kids. People inviting strangers to join them for a ride. People sharing stories, food, laughter, and miles.

Not exactly the violent outlaw narrative Hollywood loves so much. Just good people. Good people who happen to love motorcycles.

As for me, I spent the weekend doing something I haven't done much of throughout my life: I stayed in the moment.

I wasn't trying to figure out where this relationship is headed. I wasn't trying to predict the future. I wasn't trying to protect myself from disappointment. I wasn't trying to escape.

I was simply there.

With her.

Enjoying the ride.

As I write this, I'm lying beside her while she sleeps. The morning sun is creeping into the room, and I'm once again struck by how lucky I am.

I don't know where this road leads. And honestly, for once, I don't care.

I'm learning to let go of the destination and enjoy the ride.

And for someone who has spent most of her life pinned to the throttle, desperately trying to get somewhere, that might be the most remarkable part of all.