Uninformed Egos and Other Road Hazards
A casual comment turned into a familiar irritation: the unearned confidence of someone asserting authority without knowing a damn thing about the rider they were talking to or the road they were judging.
The Case Of The Swollen Knee
I survived the crash. I survived the hospital. What I didn’t survive intact was the space between diagnosis and action. This is the story of how a system designed to save lives can still refuse to fix a problem while documenting, referring, billing, and delaying its way into absurdity.
Some Days the Words Don’t Come, But the Ride Does
Some days I wake up with stories clawing to get out. Other days, my wrist hurts, my foot protests, and the words stay quiet. On those days, I ride. And somewhere between cold air, torque, and movement, my soul remembers who the fuck I am.
Between Sleeps
I fall asleep early, wake up in the middle of the night, write until dawn, ride through cold Santa Fe mornings, then do it all over again. It wasn’t the routine I planned, but it’s the one that’s healing me. Writing has become the thread that stitches my body, mind, and spirit back together, and right now, I wouldn’t trade this strange, quiet rhythm for anything.
I Woke the Bike Up, and It Woke Me the Fuck Up
I didn’t just get my bike back, I got myself back. With the right pipes, proper airflow, a ThunderMax ECM, and a real dyno tune, my Breakout 117 finally woke up. And somewhere between the torque surge and the sound echoing off cold Santa Fe pavement, my spirit woke up with it.
A Liberty Kind of Night
Somewhere along the way, “small government” turned into selective government: loud, intrusive, and obsessed with legislating medicine. We already have licensed doctors, malpractice law, and ethical boards. Adding politicians to the exam room doesn’t protect anyone. It just erodes liberty and calls it governance.
3:00 A.M. and the Right to Repair Bullshit
Waking up at 3:00 a.m. has a way of stripping things down to their bones. No filters. No patience. Just clarity. Somewhere between insomnia and Instagram, I watched a politician pitch the so-called Right to Repair Act like it was liberation. It isn’t. It’s a dangerous sleight of hand that trades responsibility for regulation and calls it freedom.
The Silent Moments
People have opinions about my recovery. Strong ones. They form them from moments, snapshots, not from the hours spent in silence at two in the morning, staring at medical records, trying to understand what my body remembers even when my mind does not. This isn’t recklessness. It’s reckoning. And what you’re seeing is only a fraction of a much deeper transformation.
The Gift I Didn’t Ask For
Everyone tells me it must be a blessing that I don’t remember the accident. That it’s a gift not to carry those images, those moments, that trauma. But they’re wrong. What they don’t understand is that my brain didn’t just erase the crash, it erased an entire day, the ER, the ICU, the moments that defined the months that followed. And I’m left carrying rage, grief, and pain without context. That kind of absence isn’t mercy. It feels like theft.
When The Universe Says “Hold My Beer”
Sometimes the universe doesn’t wait for you to ask. It looks you in the eye, cracks a grin, and says, “Here, hold my beer.” Then it grabs the wheel. Today, instead of rage-writing about healthcare or bureaucracy, I wrote queer short stories. Two of them. And when the words come like that—unforced, urgent, necessary—you don’t argue. You get out of the way and let them land.
When The System Isn’t Coming
There’s a moment in long recoveries where patience stops being responsible and starts being dangerous. Where the system keeps saying “wait,” and your body keeps saying “no.” This is what it feels like when trust finally breaks.
The Logic Failure
We’ve stopped blaming decisions and started blaming objects. Guns. Cars. Motorcycles. Anything except the person who actually made the choice. That isn’t compassion, it’s intellectual laziness. And it’s getting people killed.
Stop Acting Like You’re Dead
Tragedy has a way of waking people up, briefly. But regret doesn’t come from what happens to us; it comes from how long we pretend we don’t have a choice. I don’t live that way anymore. And neither should you.
Noise, Torque, and the Awakening of Aurora Borealis
It wasn’t the ride that did it, it was the phone call. Missed at first, answered on the side of the road, and instantly changing everything. Parts were in. The schedule was real. And just like that, Aurora Borealis was one step closer to becoming the light-to-light monster she was always meant to be.
America Has a Freedom Problem (And We’re Yelling at the Wrong Things)
America has an anger problem. Not because we lack things to be angry about, but because we keep choosing the wrong ones.
Instead of confronting the slow erosion of individual liberty, we rage at abstractions: imaginary kings, trendy villains, and half-understood claims like “AI wastes water.” Meanwhile, the real machinery that limits freedom hums along quietly in the background, unchallenged and largely unnoticed.
This isn’t activism. It’s distraction.
You Don’t Get to Be More Afraid of My Recovery Than I Am
I survived injuries that kill people outright. Every minute since has been a fight, and I fought. Two months later, I got back on my bike, not because I forgot what happened, but because I refuse to let the person who hit me define the rest of my life. What surprised me wasn’t fear. It was the judgment for getting up.
Back In The Fucking Saddle
I took my bike out today for the first time in two months. It wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t razor sharp. I rode slower, gave cars more space, and listened to my body instead of my ego. But fuck it — I rode. And in doing so, something inside me snapped back into place. Healing didn’t just continue today. It shifted into overdrive.
This Time of Year
I used to love the holidays. I loved the simplicity, the togetherness, the quiet joy of people actually being decent to one another. Somewhere along the way, we traded that in for parking lot warfare, shopping cart rage, and a soul-sucking obsession with buying shit no one actually needs. Now the season doesn’t bring out goodwill, it brings out the truth. And honestly? That truth kind of fucking sucks.
Reclaiming My Body Is Not A Group Decision
I walked into a pool hall wearing sneakers and immediately learned something important: people are real comfortable giving advice about recoveries they’ve never lived. Here’s the thing: reclaiming my body, my life, and my autonomy is not a fucking group decision.
The Medical Industrial Complex Is Broken, and We’re All Just Supposed to Accept It
The medical industrial complex has gotten completely out of fucking control, and what blows my mind is where the hell are the protests for this? When you’re in pain, when you know something is wrong with your body, the system doesn’t move toward care, it moves you through a maze. Wrong doctors. Endless referrals. Bureaucratic gatekeeping. All while you’re paying for insurance that promises access but delivers obstruction. This isn’t medicine anymore. It’s compliance theater.