Whirlwind

This weekend was a whirlwind.

I literally drove through one, for the record.

Perhaps the drive out was representative of the weekend I was about to have.

I left Santa Fe around noon. First order of business was gas. I pulled into a station I frequent and rolled up to a pump next to a pickup truck. A woman was standing by the open passenger door holding onto a dog that had suddenly developed an unhealthy interest in the thing with two wheels that had just arrived.

"It's okay," I whispered.

The dog lunged directly at my face.

"Okay, maybe not."

While fueling, something told me to reach out. So I did.

I asked her if she liked to read.

"Yes," she said. "I love to read."

I handed her a copy of And So, She Rose.

"I just wrote this. If you like it, leave a review on Amazon. If you don't, use it to light your fireplace."

She smiled and took it.

I geared up, swung a leg over Nyx, and headed north.

The weather was beautiful, but I could see clouds building ahead. Around Las Vegas, I hit rain. Nothing terrible. Just enough to sting a little. I pulled my bandana up and kept moving.

Then something smacked me in the face.

Hard.

Then again.

Then again.

Hail.

Fucking hail.

Now understand, I was doing what I always do. The throttle was pinned and I was rolling along at about 115 mph. At that speed, even pea-sized hail feels personal.

Ouch.

Ouch!

Ouchety fucking ouch!

I bent forward, boobs to the tank, trying to use the fairing as a shield while maintaining what I considered a perfectly reasonable speed.

Then one of those little frozen bastards hit my goggles just right and broke the seal. Rain and hail immediately found my eyeball.

(Using Forrest Gump voice) Even I knew that was a bad thing.

So I reluctantly backed it down to eighty, fixed my goggles on the fly, cleared my vision, and got back to business.

A few minutes later the storm was gone.

Then came the heat.

And the wind.

Relentless, brutal, hot wind.

At one point a whirlwind hit me hard enough that it damn near shoved me into another zip code, but somehow I kept her upright and moving.

Eventually I rolled into La Junta.

I checked into the hotel, cleaned up, and went to see the friend who had confessed just a week earlier that she'd wanted to be my wife.

We grabbed food. We talked. We caught up.

And somewhere during the evening she kissed me.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing earth-shattering. Just a kiss.

But for someone who has spent the last year starving for human touch, it felt pretty fucking incredible.

Later I went back to the hotel intending to shower and sleep.

The shower part worked. The sleep part did not.

I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling wondering what the hell I was doing there, what the hell had happened, and what the hell any of it meant.

The next morning I found a local breakfast place and sat at the bar because, as previously established, I'm a lonely biker and that's where we belong.

The special was a cheeseburger omelet.

Now let's pause for a moment: A cheeseburger omelet.

What the actual fuck?

Naturally, I ordered it.

Ground beef. Cheese. Onions.

And pickles.

Pickles!

In a fucking omelet.

And somehow it was brilliant. I didn't know much I needed pickles in my omelets, but now I can't imagine life without them.

The rest of the day was spent wandering around Colorado. A car show in Rocky Ford. A fundraiser at the Harley dealership in Pueblo. Ninety-five fucking degrees. Leather chaps. Leather vest.

I was being slow-roasted in my own gear.

The band was fantastic though. Red Mountain Highway. If you ever get the chance to see them, do it.

Eventually it was time to leave.

Except Nyx had other plans.

I thumbed the starter.

Nothing.

Fuck.

An hour and about a hundred dollars later, Harley had reflashed my ThunderMax and I was back in business.

That evening we ended up at a restaurant with her boyfriend.

And the energy shifted.

Not because I suddenly cared about exclusivity. I don't. But she got weird. The energy got weird. And when that happened, I knew it was time to go.

Back at the hotel, I collapsed from a combination of heat exhaustion, emotional whiplash, and general human confusion.

The next morning I packed the bike, talked with my amazing friend in California while loading up, grabbed breakfast, and pointed Nyx toward home.

God, I love the open road.

Point and pin.

Point and pin.

Point and pin.

Nothing but road, engine, and horizon.

I eventually came across a large group of bikers riding together. Twenty or thirty of them. An MC, judging by the patches.

They were doing about eighty. I wasn't.

By the time I realized who they were, I was already halfway past them, so I continued with my existing strategy of minding my own fucking business and hauling ass.

A few hours later I rolled into Santa Fe.

Another shower.

A five-hour nap on the couch.

Then bed.

And now, sitting here still trying to figure out what the hell happened this weekend, I opened Amazon and found a new review. From the woman at the gas station. The woman with the dog. The woman I handed a book to on a whim. She'd already finished it. It took her two hours. She wrote:

"I devoured her book in less than 2 hours. She is an amazing writer, the type that takes you along for a ride and leaves you with a feeling and message you won't forget."

I spent the weekend chasing answers. About relationships. About friendship. About connection. About what comes next.

I still don't have those answers.

But somewhere in the middle of hail, heat, whirlwinds, kisses, pickles, breakdowns, and confusion, I was reminded of something important: Sometimes you don't get the answer you were looking for. Sometimes you get the one you needed.

And honestly? That's pretty fucking good too.