The Price of Going Home
When Sunday afternoon rolled around, I really didn't want to leave her.
She means so goddamned much to me, and being by her side, even just being in the same general vicinity, settles something inside me. It brings me peace knowing that what we have is real, tangible, and present. So saying goodbye is becoming harder every weekend. Maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder. I don't fucking know. I just know that every time I swing my leg over the bike to head home, a little piece of my heart wants to stay behind with her.
But eventually, you have to go.
I punched Santa Fe into the GPS, chose the route through Taos, mapped out a couple of gas stops, and pointed Aurora south.
Unlike the ride up two days earlier through freezing rain, the ride home was brutally fucking hot. Hot and windy. And because of all the recent rain, there were bugs. Millions of the little bastards. Aurora is a Breakout 117. She doesn't have a fairing. She doesn't have a windshield. She has exactly zero wind protection.
Don't get me wrong, I fucking love this motorcycle. I love everything about her. She's fast. She's violent. She leaps forward every time I twist the throttle, and she pulls like she has something to prove.
But holy shit is she uncomfortable on long rides.
Every bug hit me. Every gust of wind hit me. Every bump in the road found its way into my spine.
And as the miles rolled by, the wind just kept getting stronger.
I don't know how fast those gusts were, and honestly it doesn't matter. They were strong enough that if I relaxed for even a second, Aurora would remind me who was really in charge. I found myself riding tense, gripping the bars harder than I wanted to, anticipating every slap of wind that came crashing across the highway.
Then I passed one of those electronic highway signs.
HIGH WIND WARNING.
Yeah. No fucking shit.
The wind was hot enough that I dehydrated fast. My first stop was Walsenburg. I filled the tank, walked inside, bought one of my beloved flavored sparkling waters, and sat on the bike drinking bubbles while stuffing hot-and-spicy peanuts into my face.
Judge me all you want. Fancy bubbly water is one of life's great pleasures.
Fifteen minutes later I climbed back on and headed south.
The wind hadn't improved.
Neither had my mood.
I found myself backing off the throttle, cruising around seventy or eighty instead of my usual pace, trying to save both fuel and energy. By the time I reached San Luis, I pulled in for another gas stop.
That's when my stomach dropped.
I reached into the inside pocket of my vest for my credit cards.
Nothing.
The constant wind had popped open both the outside snaps on my vest and the snaps on the inside pocket. Sometime during the ride, my card holder had simply... left.
Gone.
Somewhere in southern Colorado.
I normally carry cash, but before leaving I'd talked myself out of getting more because, hell, I had my cards.
I opened the little pouch in my backpack.
Twenty-one dollars.
Fuck.
Would that be enough to get me back to Santa Fe? I honestly didn't know.
I filled the tank, handed over most of my cash, and headed back onto the highway, riding a little slower now, watching the fuel gauge almost as closely as I watched the road.
By the time I rolled into my garage, the low-fuel light was on.
I had made it.
Barely.
The next morning I cancelled every card I owned and started the process of replacing everything.
Some lessons have to be relearned: Always carry cash.
But somewhere during that miserable ride home, another thought kept finding its way into my helmet.
Not once...
Not once did I wish I hadn't gone.
Not during the freezing rain on the ride up.
Not during the scorching wind on the ride back.
Not while bugs were exploding against my face.
Not while I was wondering whether I'd have enough fuel to make it home.
I'd do every miserable mile again without hesitation.
Because she was waiting for me at one end of that ride.
And somehow...
That makes every hardship along the way feel a little less like suffering and a little more like the price of going home.
