Torque Therapy

What a weekend.

“Mild workouts,” if you can even call them that. And when I say mild, I don’t mean a disciplined 60-minute session moving methodically through a program. No. Routine and I? We’re not friends.

My BFF has roasted me for years about this. She’s big into makeup and, more importantly, skin care. She’s tried, repeatedly, to turn me into a skin-care person. There’s just one problem: Routine.

If something must be done daily, on a schedule, repeatedly… I revolt. Internally. Subconsciously. Violently.

I think, deep down, I equate routine with control. And I will not be controlled. It’s that simple. I am so pathologically defiant that the idea of applying a specific product at a specific time feels like an attack on my personal liberty.

Yes, I’m aware that’s insane. Therapists probably have a word for it.

I have a word too: Whatever.

So the workouts? They happened in fragments. Ten or fifteen minutes when I walked past the bench. A quick set while food was cooking. Another few sets between rides. Arms here. Shoulders there. No plan. Just intent.

I’m training for strength. And I know some people will choke on my use of the word “training.” To those people, I also have other words. They start with “Fuck your mother” and end in anatomical detail.

And then there was Aurora.

Oh my God.

Nyx is incredible. She’s refined. She’s becoming something powerful in her own right.

But Aurora? Aurora is mean. Quick. Snappy. Foreboding. She doesn’t roll into traffic, she stalks it. She growls when other machines even look in her direction.

All weekend I pounded that throttle. Cruising politely with traffic until a seam opened up. A gap to the front of the pack.

Crack. Wide open. Bassani screaming. Front wheel light. And BAM-front of the line.

I like to imagine the cars behind me sitting there with blank faces, wondering what the hell just happened.

In my head, I answer them: I happened.

That bike is primal. Mechanical violence wrapped in chrome. A goddamn beast. I couldn’t get enough. Four days of riding hard, irritating Santa Feans and tourists alike.

That’s what I’m talking about.

And now here I am tonight. Keyboard. AI co-conspirator. Camshaft catalogs open. Because she needs more torque.

More.

Why?

Because.

Maybe speed and power are my new addictions, the ones that replaced cigarettes and whiskey when I gave up my evil ways. (Yes, hear that in Clint Eastwood’s voice.)

Maybe I enjoy making Tesla drivers and Mustang bros question their life choices. Or maybe, closer to the truth, it just makes me feel alive.

I’m working through the residual fear from the accident. Every ride peels another layer off. Riding aggressively isn’t riding recklessly. Not on a bike. What looks dangerous from inside a car is just Tuesday for us. And as long as I have a right hand, I will use it to twist a throttle. That’s my promise to God.

So here I sit, ogling camshafts for the Milwaukee-Eight. Because the violence tapers too early. And I’m not done evolving.