The Procedural Fucking Dance
I spent hours watching people move through a courthouse where the enormous power of the state had somehow become routine. Dates were scheduled. Names were called. People were told when to come back. Everyone played their part. But somewhere underneath all that fucking procedure, I kept wondering what happened to justice.
The Fucking Cage
A car gets you from one place to another. A motorcycle puts you inside every fucking mile between them. The temperature, the wind, the smells, the landscape. You don't pass through the world. You enter it. Unfortunately, sometimes love and logistics mean climbing into the fucking cage anyway.
The Best Laid Plans
Sometimes the best weekends are the ones where absolutely nothing goes according to plan. A delayed motorcycle seat, a brutal ride across Colorado, missed events, and a chance conversation around a circle of folding chairs reminded me that life has a habit of changing the destination while you're still focused on the map.
Weaponized Windshield Fluid
Somewhere outside Denver, a driver decided to teach a motorcyclist a lesson by spraying windshield washer fluid straight backward into my face at highway speeds. Maybe they thought it was funny. Maybe they thought I was following too closely. What they almost did was blind someone balancing on two wheels in heavy traffic. Motorcyclists already accept enough risk from distracted drivers, weather, and wildlife. We shouldn't have to defend ourselves from people who intentionally make the road more dangerous.
What a Fucking Ride
Sometimes the ride sucks. Not because of the rain. Not because of the miles. But because Murphy decides today's the day your comfortable bike is broken, your GPS loses its damn mind, your backpack weighs a hundred pounds, and your body files a formal complaint with every mile. Then your wife smiles at you across a hotel parking lot, and somehow none of it matters anymore.
My Life. My Rules.
A mortgage application isn't really about buying a house. At least, not for me. It's about finally choosing to build the life I want instead of the life everyone else thinks I should have. Almost dying has a way of clarifying things. I'm done waiting for retirement to start living. The life I want begins now.
Three Things
Sometimes life has a funny way of reminding you what actually matters.
I thought I was leaving for Colorado on one motorcycle. Instead, a text message changed the entire weekend. Nyx was ready. The repairs were finished. The upgrades were done. And somewhere between picking up my bike and twisting the throttle for the first time, I realized my life had quietly become much simpler than I ever imagined.
There are only three things that truly matter anymore.
Choosing Each Other
The day began with a broken water line and the sinking feeling that comes from being hundreds of miles away when someone you love needs you. But by the end of the weekend, none of that would matter. Because some people don't just choose to spend time with you. They choose to build a life beside you.
We Are the Same
Some people think becoming a rider starts the day you buy your first motorcycle. I don't. I think the motorcycle is just paperwork. The rider was already there. This weekend, the woman I love gets her first bike, and I already know exactly what's about to happen.
We Are Not the Same
Apparently someone got jealous after seeing my girlfriend on the back of my Harley. But they missed the point entirely. Motorcycles aren't about impressing people or collecting passengers. They're about freedom. And the best part isn't that she's riding behind me today... it's that she'll soon be riding beside me on her own bike.
The Price of Going Home
The ride home was brutal. Triple-digit heat. Relentless crosswinds. Bugs. A lost wallet somewhere in southern Colorado. And yet, not once during those long miles did I wish I hadn't gone. Some journeys are worth every inconvenience because of who's waiting at the other end.
Fifty-Four
A freezing ride through rain, hail, and wind should have been the story of my birthday weekend. Instead, somewhere between New Mexico and Colorado, I realized something far more important: after a lifetime of surviving, I've finally given myself permission to be happy.
The Best Laid Plans
The plan was simple: breakfast at Pantry Dos, point Nyx north, and ride to Colorado to see my girlfriend. Then the throttle died, the starter spun, and my beautifully orchestrated weekend turned into trailers, logistics, and a different Harley. But the destination never changed.
