The Little Things

There are things you don’t notice in a car. Not because they’re not there—but because you’re too far removed from the world to feel them.

Like the way cold air settles into low spots after the sun starts to dip. You’ll be cruising along a hot stretch of pavement and then—bam—a quick pocket of cool, crisp air hits your chest like a secret only the road knows. Then it's gone. Then it's back. Then gone again. And each time, it makes you smile. Not a big goofy grin—just one of those quiet, knowing smiles. Like you're in on something sacred.

Then there’s the bugs.

I used to hate them. Still do, really. Off the bike, I’ll swat and curse and duck like a maniac. But on the bike? They don’t bother me. Not even when they hit me in the face. They're just part of the ride—another texture in the chaos. They smash into my cheeks, my helmet, sometimes even my lip, and it’s... fine. It just is. Like wind or gravel or noise. Annoying, maybe—but accepted. Understood.

One small slap for man, one giant slime for mankind.

Same goes for the rain.

I used to hate getting wet. Not rain as a concept—just the inconvenience of being caught in it. If I didn’t go outside to get wet, then I sure as hell didn’t want to be wet. It pissed me off.

But somewhere between dying and discovering motorcycles, that changed. Now, if the sky opens up mid-ride, I don’t mind. In fact, I sometimes smile at the thought.

“Rough ride ahead,” I think to myself.
“Should be fun,” I finish—with a grin.

I’ve ridden in rain so hard my boots filled with water. Drenched from head to toe, dripping. Rain pouring off my face as I laugh maniacally, navigating the literal flood I’m pushing my bike through.

The smaller drops sting—like needles pinging your cheeks at 90 miles an hour. The bigger ones? They hurt like hell. Like tiny, wet bullets slapping against your skin.

But you can ride through it. And I do.

Because I know something now: the wind will dry me. The ride will take care of it. The pain stops when the rain stops. Yeah, I might get cold for a while. But I’ll warm up. I’ll dry off. It’ll pass.

You also miss the views in a car.

Yeah, you’re surrounded by windows—but those windows are framed in. There’s a roof overhead. And no offense, but I’ve seen you: you’re too busy fucking with your phone and your radio to notice what’s going on around you.

(That’s also a general gripe I have about cars, but I’ll save that for another post.)

On a motorcycle, you see everything—because you’re in constant focus with everything. Sure, that hypervigilance is rooted in danger identification, but it also serves the soul in identifying the beauty.
The way the moon dances through clouds on an evening ride.
The way the sunrise throws crimson streaks across the valley as it crests over the Sangre de Cristos.
The way the shadows move across the land, creating those cold pockets I talked about.

And maybe that’s part of the magic of motorcycles.

Maybe that’s the soul-soothing part—this whole-body awareness that floods your skin, your eyes, your nose, and your ears. This immersion of the senses.
This sacred space where your body and soul both agree to show the fuck up.

I mean… it’s either that, or the insanely amazing feeling of pushing into triple digits on two wheels.

You decide. 😉