Some Days the Words Don’t Come, But the Ride Does

Goddamn, I don’t feel like writing today.

My left wrist feels off: tired, tight, and stubborn in that plate-and-screw way that makes you wonder whether you pushed too hard or if this is just the new normal. Who the fuck knows. Somebody probably does, but it’s not me.

My left foot? Yeah, I’m definitely pushing that more than I should. It’s still tender, but I walk through it anyway. The doctor’s probably going to have words the next time I see him. Oops.

I’m lying in bed knowing I haven’t posted on my blog in two days, and the last one was… fine. It did the job. It just didn’t have any fire in it.

It’s cold out. Not “January average” cold, I don’t give a fuck about averages, but motorcycle cold. Thirty degrees. Cold enough that you feel it in your fingers and toes. Cold enough to make excuses.

I’ve been meaning to ride down to Albuquerque to check out a biker coffee shop. Every day I come up with a reason not to go. Today’s excuse? The salvage yard that’s holding my wrecked bike isn’t open. I need to give them my key and grab my GPS unit. Not today. There. Excuse officially locked in.

But here’s the thing: I think I’m getting back to normal, whatever the hell that means.

I dreamed about Aurora last night.

I woke up itching to ride. Not just to ride a motorcycle, to ride her. She’s under my skin now. In my veins. In my heart. I didn’t know I’d ever come back to this level of love after the accident.

The first few rides were rough. Clutching hurt my wrist. Shifting hurt my foot. Traffic made me uneasy in a way I didn’t expect, especially since I don’t even remember the crash itself. The fear showed up sideways, like the nervousness of a brand-new rider. I gave cars extra space. Watched everything. Stayed guarded.

And then the bike work happened.

Torque. Horsepower. Fire.

It lit something back up in me. Suddenly I wasn’t tiptoeing through traffic, I was moving. Claiming space. Riding like I belonged there. Because I fucking did.

Now I wake up thinking about Aurora Borealis, black and chrome, waiting to dance in the sun. No story clawing at my brain this morning. No sentences begging to be written. Just a right hand itching to twist the throttle and wake up the neighbors.

That thought alone made me smile.

I think I’m almost ready to return to work. The doctors still have opinions. Physical therapy is coming for my wrist. There are boxes to check.

But my soul? My soul is ready.

Ready to lead again. Ready to find fuel and fire in purpose. Ready to wait patiently for the next story to demand its way onto the page.

Some days the words don’t come.

Some days, the ride does.