The Survivor’s Club

I attended a leadership training last week in Ohio. I’ve written a little about that experience already, so this isn’t about the training itself. But it does set the stage for something that hit me this morning.

When I arrived, we were split into teams, the people we’d work with throughout the sessions. And honestly, it was an incredible group.

At some point, I mentioned my motorcycle accident from October. I told them I was still recovering, even though it’s been almost six months. One of my teammates, a younger manager from my organization, just in a different group, pointed at the scar on my left forearm and wrist, then showed me his.

Same place. Same length. Same story written in skin.

He told me about his own crash, about the plate and screws he carries now. But what stood out more than the scar was his demeanor. There was a calmness to him. A stillness. An ease with life that you don’t see in everyone.

I finished the training and didn’t think much more about it.

Then last week, someone else I work with mentioned he’d been in a serious motorcycle wreck years ago. I haven’t worked closely with him, but he’s always struck me the same way: calm, grounded, steady. The kind of person who doesn’t get rattled by much.

This morning, sitting at breakfast waiting for my food, my mind wandered back to my injuries. Then to the guy from training. Then to my coworker.

And it clicked.

Of course the left radius snaps there, right near the wrist.

Because we hold on.

As riders, we ride it all the way out. We don’t let go early. We don’t give up control before we have to. Anyone who has ridden long enough knows this truth: we have all had close calls. It comes with the ride. No matter how good you are, there is always someone in a car who is not paying attention, who is about to make a decision that could end your day or your life.

And in that moment, you do everything you can to stay in it. To control it. To save it.

The only way you don’t break that arm is if you let go early.

Fuck that.

My injuries tell a story. The scars are the record. They are proof that I held on as long as I could.

I still find myself sitting on the edge of tears when I think about that night. And I think about it often. But I am a better person for having survived it.

Those of us who walk away from motorcycle crashes are different.

We have seen, in a very real way, how fragile this all is. And we have proven, to the world, and more importantly to ourselves, that we can endure it. That we can rebuild. That we can keep going.

What used to feel insurmountable does not hit the same anymore. It is just another obstacle. Just another rock in the road.

We live differently after that.

Our souls settle, but something in us burns hotter. There is a calm on the surface, but there is also fire behind the eyes.

Because when you have woken up in an emergency room with pain in every part of your body, when you have relearned how to move from a bed to a wheelchair to a toilet, when you have gone through the slow, painful process of recovery from something that often kills riders, you do not come back the same.

You come back sharper.

Calmer.

More alive.

Your passion for living grows, and your relationship with risk changes. You stop fearing it the same way. You understand it. You respect it. But you are not owned by it.

We call this The Survivor’s Club.

And the dues only need to be paid once.