Fucking Waiting
I know exactly what I need to do. Pack my bag on Nyx, point north, and go get the woman I love. There's no complicated decision to make and no problem left to analyze. There's just one problem: somewhere in Santa Fe, a perfectly decent stranger is sleeping peacefully while my driver's license sits on his kitchen counter. And so I wait.
My Ship, My Responsibility
Riding with Dawna makes me want to slow down and savor the ride. But I've learned there's a difference between slowing down and becoming hesitant. When the woman I love climbs onto the back of my motorcycle, she's trusting me with her life. Sometimes protecting her means taking it easy. Sometimes it means twisting the fucking throttle and getting us away from the idiots.
Balance (A Guest Blog by Dawna Russom)
What does safety actually feel like after a lifetime spent fighting for freedom, autonomy, and the right to make your own stupid decisions? Maybe it feels like sitting beside a powerful river without fearing the current. Maybe it feels like finally being seen and loved. And maybe, sometimes, it feels like having enough room in your life to get really fucking pissed off about a crappy mechanical pencil.
Bare to the Elements
I spent fifty-four years learning how to protect my heart. I built walls, learned to stand alone, and eventually convinced myself I preferred it that way. Then Dawna came along, and somehow the walls disappeared. Now she's gone back to Colorado, the house feels fucking empty, and I'm discovering the other side of letting someone completely into your heart.
TooTall
I have a biker name now. Not one I picked, because that's not how this shit works. Someone else looked at me and decided I was TooTall. And somewhere in that simple act was something much bigger than a nickname: acceptance. I walked into a gathering as an outsider and left with a name.
She Stayed
She was supposed to leave. Instead, she read what I'd written, saw that my heart was hurting, and stayed. Just a few more days, but sometimes love isn't about grand gestures. Sometimes it's simply looking at someone you care about and choosing them. And I'm still learning what the fuck it feels like to be chosen.
When Ours Becomes Mine Again
For the last several days, this house hasn't felt like mine. It's felt like ours. Her deodorant is on the counter. Her things are mixed with mine. She rearranged our bedroom. And today she's going back to Colorado. Nothing is wrong. Everything is actually incredibly fucking right. Maybe that's why watching her leave hurts so much.
Seven Oysters
I spent the hours before proposing trying to understand why I was so fucking nervous when I already knew her answer. Then I stood in front of Dawna, trembling, said every word I'd been carrying for her, and asked her to marry me. She said yes. The oysters nearly didn't survive the occasion, but apparently even the universe wasn't going to fuck this one up.
The Deodorant
Sometimes the biggest signs that your life has changed are the smallest ones. A garage door opening before I can reach for the remote. A little gift waiting at home. A second stick of deodorant on the bathroom counter. Ordinary things, maybe. But when you’ve spent most of your life surviving, ordinary can feel a lot like love.
The Two Most Important Women in My Life
Dawna came to town, Nyx finally came back to life, and somehow I ended up crawling through Indian Market traffic with a clutch designed by Satan himself. Somewhere between the sore hand, stupid drivers, approaching rain, and a change of plans, I realized something else: the two most important women in my life are finally back where they belong.
She Brought Me Home
I got pulled over on my way home from pool league for doing what I always do on a motorcycle: getting away from traffic. But somewhere in the middle of arguing about speed, safety, and freedom, I mentioned the crash that nearly killed me. Suddenly, the traffic stop wasn't really about the traffic stop anymore.
The Responsible Thing
A friend suggested a motorcycle that sounded perfectly reasonable. Unfortunately, reasonable and I have a complicated relationship. After spending decades away from riding because someone else was afraid of motorcycles, I came back to them after nearly dying and discovered something important: I’m not giving up the things that make me feel alive again.
Borrowed Thoughts
Most people don’t actually think about politics anymore. They consume it, repeat it, and then congratulate themselves for being the only sane people left in the country. The problem isn’t just borrowed opinions. It’s what happens next: people stop questioning authority, confuse legality with morality, and trade away liberty one camera, one regulation, and one “common-sense” restriction at a time.
One More Stop
If you've been wondering where I've been the last few days, don't worry. I was just paying the bill for my own life choices. Riding across New Mexico in triple-digit heat on a motorcycle with no windshield taught me something I should have figured out a long time ago: toughness isn't always about pushing harder. Sometimes it's about knowing when to stop for another bottle of water.
The Responsible Thing
I went to look at a used Indian expecting to find the dependable backup bike I need. What I found was something worse: a perfectly sensible motorcycle. It ran well, the price was right, and it was comfortable enough to do the job. It just didn’t try to rip my arms off when I twisted the throttle. Apparently, this is what responsibility feels like.
The Burden
Leadership isn't the meetings, the title, or the authority. It's the weight you carry home after everyone else has gone to bed. Four years after my cardiac arrests, sleep still eludes me, and on nights like this, I find myself lying awake, replaying conversations, questioning decisions, and worrying about people I'm not even empowered to help. That's the burden nobody tells you about.
The Guy Code
There are rules among men that nobody ever writes down, but everyone seems to understand. Veterans, bikers, and blue-collar guys have a habit of testing each other with sarcasm, insults, and relentless ribbing. As a transgender veteran, I don't always know which set of social rules I'm about to be judged by. Last weekend reminded me that sometimes the hardest part isn't surviving the test, it's explaining to the people you love why the test existed in the first place.
The Best Laid Plans
Sometimes the best weekends are the ones where absolutely nothing goes according to plan. A delayed motorcycle seat, a brutal ride across Colorado, missed events, and a chance conversation around a circle of folding chairs reminded me that life has a habit of changing the destination while you're still focused on the map.
Freedom at 75-Ish Miles Per Hour
A speed camera might look like a harmless tool for safer roads, but automated enforcement represents something much larger. It replaces judgment with machinery, due process with bureaucracy, and liberty with convenience. Government rarely takes freedom in one dramatic act. It takes it one camera, one database, and one automated citation at a time.
Weaponized Windshield Fluid
Somewhere outside Denver, a driver decided to teach a motorcyclist a lesson by spraying windshield washer fluid straight backward into my face at highway speeds. Maybe they thought it was funny. Maybe they thought I was following too closely. What they almost did was blind someone balancing on two wheels in heavy traffic. Motorcyclists already accept enough risk from distracted drivers, weather, and wildlife. We shouldn't have to defend ourselves from people who intentionally make the road more dangerous.