One More Stop

If you've been wondering where I've been the last few days, don't worry. I didn't disappear. I was simply paying the bill for last weekend's life choices.

This goddamned last weekend took the fucking life out of me. There's no question about it. By the time I rolled into my garage, my face was windburned, sunburned, and about as dry as the New Mexico desert I'd just spent hours crossing. I was dehydrated, exhausted, and generally felt like I'd lost a fight with Mother Nature.

She won.

Again.

The funny thing is, I don't do well in the heat. I overheat quickly, and once my core temperature gets too high, things start going downhill in a hurry. I get lightheaded. My energy disappears. It becomes harder to think clearly, and if I don't stop and cool down, I'm going to have a really bad day.

I'd like to blame all of that on the cardiac arrests from four years ago, but if I'm being honest, this has been true my whole life. The cardiac arrests just turned the dial up to eleven.

So on my ride home from La Junta this weekend, I developed a routine. About once an hour I'd pull into a gas station, fuel the bike, park, and head inside. I'd grab a bubbly water because apparently I'm fucking fancy now, and then I'd buy the biggest bottle of cold water they had.

The water wasn't just for drinking.

Outside, I'd pour some into my helmet. It has one of those silicone cooling inserts that's designed to be refrigerated before a ride, but since I rarely remember to do that, cold water is the next best thing. Then I'd soak the bandana that keeps my hair under control. Then I'd dump water down both sleeves of my sun shirt. Then all over my face. Then over my head again. Then down my neck. Then down my chest. By the time I finished my sparkling water, I looked like I'd just climbed out of a swimming pool.

Then I'd put my helmet back on, climb onto Aurora, and get back on the highway.

For about five glorious minutes, it was perfect.

The airflow would turn all that cold water into an evaporative cooler. The hundred-degree air suddenly became tolerable. My head cleared. My body temperature came back down. I actually felt human again.

Then I'd dry out.

About an hour later I'd find another gas station and start the whole process over again.

What surprised me most wasn't the heat. It was realizing just how much work Nyx's fairing and windshield were doing.

Before this weekend, I always thought of them as conveniences. Nice things to have on a long ride. Turns out they're survival equipment. The fairing pushes the blast furnace of hot air around my body instead of directly into it. The windshield keeps that constant pressure off my chest and face. It doesn't make the ride luxurious. It just makes it less physically demanding, and when you're already struggling with the heat, that difference matters.

I also keep a little spray bottle of water in one of Nyx's cubbies so I can mist myself while I'm riding. It sounds ridiculous until you've spent six hours crossing New Mexico in triple-digit temperatures. Every little trick helps.

Aurora doesn't have cubbies. She doesn't have a windshield. She wasn't built to protect me from the environment. She was built to be a fucking hot rod. She does exactly what I built her to do, and she does it exceptionally well.

But spending six or eight hours crossing the Southwest in the middle of summer isn't her job.

That's Nyx's job.

By the time I finally rolled into my garage, I wasn't motorcycle tired. I wasn't "that was a long ride" tired. I was completely spent. It took me the better part of a day before I felt like myself again. Maybe longer. I'll let you know.

I suppose that's another lesson this weekend was trying to teach me.

For years, I thought toughness meant pushing through. Ignore the discomfort. Ignore the pain. Ignore what your body was trying to tell you.

Age has a funny way of changing that equation.

So do three cardiac arrests.

Sometimes the tough decision isn't pushing harder. Sometimes it's pulling over for another bottle of water. Sometimes it's admitting that your body isn't the same body it was twenty years ago.

And sometimes...

Sometimes it's admitting you've been asking the wrong tool to do the wrong job.

Aurora isn't broken. She isn't inadequate. She's exactly the motorcycle I built her to be. Loud. Fast. Obnoxious. She'll absolutely embarrass people who think Harleys can't move.

I was the one asking her to become something she was never meant to be.

Sometimes the responsible decision is buying the motorcycle that's actually built for the ride instead of trying to force the wrong motorcycle into doing it.

I'm still not sure I like that lesson.

But...

I'm starting to think I need to listen to it.