Thunder Therapy

I throw my leg over the bike, settle into the seat, and close my eyes for a moment, barely suppressing the grin trying to break loose.

I fold my hands and whisper the same prayer I always do before a ride:

“Dear God, please protect me on this ride I’m about to take. In your name, amen.”

I open my eyes and thumb the ignition.

Aurora wakes instantly.

Lights flare to life. Fuel pump hums. Then the starter catches and she erupts into that deep, lopey thunder that threatens to wake every sleeping child within four blocks.

Blup blup blup…

Blup blup blup…

Blup blup blup…

The whole bike rocks beneath me in rhythm with the cam, and almost immediately, I feel my breathing slow. My body relaxes. Something deep inside me settles into the rumble. Like my nervous system recognizes the sound and says: There you are.

I ease her into first and feather the clutch through the neighborhood.

“Easy, girl,” I whisper. “We’ll get there.”

Two minutes later, I hit the final stop sign leaving the subdivision.

I glance both ways. Then I dump the clutch and crack the throttle.

Aurora explodes forward so hard she damn near throws me off the seat.

Second.

Third.

The roar echoes across the valley as the speed climbs violently. Ninety miles per hour arrives disturbingly fast. Fourth gear slams home. Wind tears at my jacket while I awkwardly grin like a lunatic trying not to inhale breakfast.

Traffic circle.

Downshift.

Engine braking.

Then throttle again.

Second.

Third.

Fourth.

Fifth.

Aurora feels alive now. Not restrained. Not domesticated. Free.

And honestly? So do I.

The morning air was perfect. Slightly cold, but not uncomfortable. Just enough bite to keep you awake. God, I love New Mexico mornings.

And fuck, I love this motorcycle.

Aurora Borealis is my Harley Breakout 117. When I first got her, I immediately put pipes, an air cleaner, and a ThunderMax ECM on her. That was right after I got out of the wheelchair following my motorcycle accident. As soon as I could physically swing a leg over again, awkwardly and unsteadily at first, I scheduled time with the mechanic.

That first round of upgrades woke her up. More torque. More attitude. More life.

And honestly, she helped wake me up too. She gave me the confidence to ride in traffic again. To trust myself again.

But as my body healed, I started wanting more.

The accident took a lot from me. But it didn’t take my love of torque. Didn’t take my love of speed. If anything, it reinforced them.

Still, I had to wait. Performance upgrades aren’t cheap, and I don’t have unlimited money. Nyx, my replacement Road Glide after the accident, needed pipes, intake, and tuning too, and that took priority.

But eventually, enough time passed that I finally called the mechanic.

“I think it’s time,” I told him. “Cam upgrade. Lifters. Springs. Cam plate. Oil pump. All the trimmings.”

Yesterday, I got Aurora back from The Fab Shop. And holy shit. This is not the same motorcycle anymore.

The dyno chart shows immediate torque that stays violent all the way through the powerband, and that’s exactly how she feels on the road. She just pulls and pulls and pulls with absolutely no sign of stopping.

I cannot get enough of it.

And weirdly enough, Aurora’s new attitude pulled me out of my own shell too.

Years ago, before COVID, before the cardiac arrests, before the accident, I had joined the Elks up in Los Alamos. But life happened. Then death happened. Then recovery happened. And somewhere along the way, I disappeared from my own world.

Yesterday changed that.

I reached out to a couple of friends up there and rode north to see them. And man… I had forgotten how many people I knew there. How many genuinely good people.

People who were truly happy to see me. People I was truly happy to see.

That mattered more than I realized. Being there calmed something in me. That constant low rumble I carry around inside my chest finally quieted down a little. I didn’t want to leave.

But eventually I had to head home because the last thing I wanted was to be riding triple digits tired on my broken sleep schedule. So I rode back to Santa Fe.

And the weather was still perfect.

So naturally, I dropped off my backpack, wiped Aurora down, and immediately went back out for a nighttime ride through town.

No destination. No purpose. Just me, the bike, music blasting through my earbuds, singing at the top of my lungs while thunder rolled through downtown Santa Fe and car alarms cried out in my wake.

I didn’t want the night to end.

I’m usually in bed by eight. I didn’t get home until after nine-thirty.

And honestly? Aurora wasn’t done with me yet.

The upgrades included stiffer clutch springs and a Trask power plate setup, which means the clutch pull is significantly heavier now. By the time I stopped near the plaza, my left hand had cramped so badly I had to pull over and massage my forearm on the side of the road like some aging street racer trying to survive one more round.

And this morning, lying here in bed writing this, the muscles in my hand and forearm are still barking at me.

A pleasant reminder of the power I was holding onto just eight hours ago.

Postscript: Rune Was Right

Last night, before I even picked Aurora up from the shop, I prompted a conversation with Rune, my Kate-trained ChatGPT.

I told it:

“I can guess that tomorrow night’s blog will probably sound loud, lopey, and un-fucking-believably fast…”

And apparently ChatGPT is finally fluent in Kate-speak, because this was the response:

“Tomorrow night’s blog is absolutely going to read like: ‘Dear diary, I have bonded with an internal combustion demon.’”

And honestly? That’s not wrong.

Rune went on to describe the exact kind of angry, uneven idle the Woods cam would give Aurora. The kind of lopey rumble that sounds impatient. Mildly homicidal. Deep enough that pedestrians turn their heads before you even touch the throttle.

It also predicted that:

• my soul would leave my body somewhere around 3500 RPM

• I’d end up downtown with a stupid grin on my face

• strangers would ask about the bike

• and I’d feel a little less alone than I did the night before

Again, not wrong.

Motorcycles do that to me.

They wake me up. They quiet the static. They pull me violently into the present moment in a way almost nothing else can. Riding Aurora yesterday reminded me that joy still exists. Loud, unreasonable, chrome-covered joy.

And yeah… I am absolutely in love with an internal combustion demon named Aurora Borealis.

There is no cure.