Noise, Torque, and the Awakening of Aurora Borealis

So there I was today, just leaving my neighborhood.

I had earbuds in, the wired kind because one of my AirPods was lost in the accident, and wearing just one makes you look like a goddamn idiot. I wasn’t wearing them for music anyway. I was wearing them for noise cancellation. Hearing protection. Because if you ride, you know the truth: it’s not the bike that fucks your hearing, it’s the wind.

Non-riders love to clutch their pearls and say, “Those loud pipes are going to ruin your ears.”

No, they’re fucking not. It’s the sound of wind tearing past your helmet at highway speed that does the damage. Foam earplugs barely touch it. Noise-canceling earbuds? Those actually work.

Except… not these.

The wired ones don’t do shit. You can’t hear the music, the wind still howls, and all you can think is, Jesus Christ, I’m going to be deaf without my AirPods. But it’s what I’ve got, so I’m rolling with it.

I was still in the neighborhood, doing a very respectable, HOA-approved twenty-five miles per hour, because God forbid, when I heard my phone ring. I wasn’t in a great spot to stop, but I figured it might be the clinic calling me back with answers about my knee. So as soon as I could, I pulled over.

Missed the call.

There I am on the side of the road, balancing my bike, unzipping my jacket, peeling through layers like an onion from hell, trying to find my phone without dropping the bike or my sanity.

And then I saw who it was: The Fab Shop.

The performance shop I hired to do my air, pipes, ECM, and tune. The one that checked every single box. I can’t turn wrenches right now, my wrist is fucked, my foot is fucked, and crawling around on the floor is not happening, so I hired it out. I’d already put cash down and was waiting for the call.

So yeah… my heart skipped.

I called them back immediately.

Parts are in. Would I like them to pick the bike up?

“Nope,” I said. “I’m actually on the bike right now. Figured I needed to get back in the saddle and work it out. I’ll bring her in.”

We scheduled it for next Monday.

Next Monday my baby gets pipes, air, ECM, and a proper tune, and I am excited as fuck. That’s the kind of excitement that vibrates in your bones.

And while I’m there? I’m planting the next seed.

Torque cam. Supporting upgrades. The whole damn ecosystem. I’m going to tell him exactly what I want: I want Hellcats and Teslas sitting at lights with a stupid look on their faces, wondering what the fuck just happened when I leave them staring at taillights and existential regret.

Low-end torque. Violent, immediate, disrespectful torque.

Yeah, I still want to cruise the highway now and then. But make no mistake, this bike is being built as a light-to-light crusher. Spec it out. Give me numbers. We’ll talk summer or fall next year.

Because that is happening.

And here’s the part I haven’t told you yet.

You know my bike’s name is Aurora. What you didn’t know is that she revealed her last name to me recently: Aurora Borealis.

Yeah. I know. It’s fucking perfect.

I’ve got a vision for her. I’m keeping the 117 core, no need to chase displacement, but everything wrapped around it? That’s where the magic happens. She’s going to be a streak of light. A controlled violence. An awakening.

Next Monday is step one.

That work wakes her up. Makes her respectable. Gives her the voice she deserves. Fall upgrades build on that. Winter or spring pushes it further. And after that? Who the hell knows.

All I know is this: That phone call, that moment on the side of the road, is the best thing that’s happened since I got back on the bike after the accident.

And yeah… I’m smiling about it.