Pain, But Progress
They fixed it. That’s the truth. Nerve endings waking back up, sensation returning to places that have been dead since October. That part is a win. But healing isn’t clean. It’s not gentle. It’s sharp, throbbing, and relentless. This is what progress actually feels like.
Cut, Stitch, Publish
On the same day I hand my face over to a surgeon’s knife, I’m waiting for something else to be born: my first book. One stitched back together. One finally set free. Either way, something changes today.
When You Start Questioning Your Own Mind
I wasn’t crying because of pressure. I deal with pressure every day. I was crying because, for a moment, I thought my mind was broken and I didn’t know if I could trust myself anymore.
You’re Fucking Welcome
Pride wasn’t born out of comfort. It was born out of survival. This is about Michael. About blood. About hiding. About violence. About what it actually cost to make today safer. And about the complicated gratitude that comes with inheriting freedom.
Goddamned Appointments
I survived the crash. I survived the hospital. Now I’m just trying to survive the goddamned appointments long enough to get back to being me.
I’m Making Heat Again
After my crash, my body stopped running hot. Rooms felt cold. Nights needed blankets. Riding felt different. I think my body redirected every spare ounce of energy toward survival. But tonight, in the middle of the night, one leg kicked out from under the covers, I realized something simple and powerful: I’m making heat again.
The Keeper of the Speed
Fresh from cardiology, defibrillator checked and heart cleared for duty, I rolled into my subdivision only to be greeted by the self-appointed Keeper of the Speed. Apparently retirement now comes with hand signals and moral authority. I had thoughts. My exhaust had volume.
Two in the Morning, and Not Done Yet
The lawyers are done. The insurance companies ran their formulas. The paperwork closed. But four months after nearly losing my life, my body isn’t finished. Healing doesn’t move at the speed of settlements. It moves at the speed of scar tissue. In the meantime? I build.
Justice Before Sunrise
At 4:30 in the morning, I’m not chasing vengeance. I’m chasing a word this country was built on: justice. If someone can make a negligent U-turn, nearly kill a motorcyclist, and walk away without so much as a citation, what does that say about liberty? About accountability? About fairness?
Compliance Is Not Care
I went into my medical records looking for information. I came out pissed off. At the top of every UNM Health record it says my name, my birthdate, and then, predictably, male. No way to fix it. No place to correct it. Meanwhile, the Catholic hospital somehow got it right. This is a story about that moment, and about the systems that insist on explaining themselves instead of listening.
Four Months
Four months can hold a lifetime. Concerts. Bikes. A brand-new tire that never got its second chance. Hospital photos I didn’t remember taking, but my body remembers living. Trauma doesn’t change you slowly, it rewires you overnight. You wake up different. And then one day, you have to walk back into your life and see who’s still there.
RIDEST is Live
RIDEST is live. Born out of a crash, recovery, and a refusal to accept unfair systems, this initiative is about making New Mexico biker-friendly and biker-safe — with fairness, accountability, and freedom at the center.
Press Zero to Scream Into the Void
What used to be a frustrating automated phone system has evolved into something worse: a machine that argues with you, blocks access to real help, and turns essential care into a test of endurance.
Uninformed Egos and Other Road Hazards
A casual comment turned into a familiar irritation: the unearned confidence of someone asserting authority without knowing a damn thing about the rider they were talking to or the road they were judging.
You Don’t Get to Be More Afraid of My Recovery Than I Am
I survived injuries that kill people outright. Every minute since has been a fight, and I fought. Two months later, I got back on my bike, not because I forgot what happened, but because I refuse to let the person who hit me define the rest of my life. What surprised me wasn’t fear. It was the judgment for getting up.
This Time of Year
I used to love the holidays. I loved the simplicity, the togetherness, the quiet joy of people actually being decent to one another. Somewhere along the way, we traded that in for parking lot warfare, shopping cart rage, and a soul-sucking obsession with buying shit no one actually needs. Now the season doesn’t bring out goodwill, it brings out the truth. And honestly? That truth kind of fucking sucks.
The Rage of Recovery
Drool, dependency, and a staircase that suddenly feels like Everest. Healing isn’t noble or poetic. It’s rage, humiliation, fire, and the refusal to surrender your autonomy — even when life keeps stacking obstacles in your way.
Maybe Patience Isn’t the Virtue They Say It Is
Patience and I have a long, ugly history. I can do it — I just fucking hate it. Growing up poor taught me how to wait, but recovering from this accident is teaching me something else entirely: sometimes patience is just forced stillness dressed up as virtue.
American Roulette
A cold morning ride, coffee with a colleague, and a breakfast date that turned into a protest invite — another reminder that dating in your fifties is American Roulette, and I’m better off riding solo.