We Are Not the Same

The love of my life left her boyfriend to be with me.

There's more to that story, of course. There always is. But that's the version polite society can digest, so we'll leave it there.

Apparently he saw us riding together one day.

She was on the back of Nyx, my Harley Road Glide, her arms wrapped around me as we carved through the summer air, finding that place every rider knows, the place where the wind gets loud enough to quiet everything else inside your head.

And evidently...

He got jealous.

Now here's where it gets interesting. He told her he used to ride.

You know the type:

"I used to have a bike."

"I used to ride all the time."

"I gave it up."

There's always a reason.

For the wife. For the kids. For work. For safety.

For whatever.

And every single one of them spends the rest of their life trying to convince actual riders that they're still one of us.

They're not.

Sorry. They're just fucking not.

Because people who ride don't stop riding.

Not willingly.

I've survived three cardiac arrests. I've survived a motorcycle crash that nearly killed me. I've spent months learning how to walk again because somebody in a car decided they didn't see me.

And the moment I could throw my leg over another motorcycle...

I did.

Not because I enjoy danger. Because riding isn't something I do. It's who I fucking am.

Every rider I know understands exactly what I'm talking about.

A motorcycle isn't transportation. It isn't a hobby. It isn't a toy. It isn't a tool to get from one place to another.

It's home. It's therapy. It's freedom. It's where the noise in our heads finally shuts the fuck up.

There's an ache that develops when we're away from motorcycles too long. You can feel it.

You miss the wind. You miss leaning into corners. You miss the smell of rain thirty miles before you reach it. You miss being completely present.

That's the call.

And if you've ever truly heard it... You don't just decide one day that you're done.

So when he told her he was jealous because he saw her on the back of my motorcycle, I couldn't help but laugh a little.

Not because he was jealous. Because of what he was jealous of.

See, he wasn't jealous of the ride. He was jealous of the girl.

He looked at a motorcycle and saw dating.

I looked at that same motorcycle and saw peace.

We're not the same.

When Dawna wraps her arms around me as we roll down the highway, I'm not thinking about appearances. I'm not thinking about winning. I'm not thinking about another man.

I'm thinking about the next corner. The next mountain range. The next stretch of open road.

I'm thinking about how lucky I am to share something I love with someone I love.

And here's the part I think he missed entirely: If he truly loved riding... If he truly understood what motorcycles give to the soul... He wouldn't be jealous that she was on the back of my bike. He'd be excited that she's about to own one of her own.

Because that's what's happening next. She's buying her first motorcycle.

Not so she can follow me. Not so she can impress me. Not so she can become "my biker chick."

She's buying it because she's ready to discover what every rider eventually discovers for themselves: Freedom.

Soon she'll stop riding behind me. She'll ride beside me.

And honestly... I can't think of anything I'd rather see. Because that's what riding has always been about.

Not possession. Not jealousy. Not image.

Freedom.

The wind doesn't care whose name is on the title. It only asks one question: Are you coming?