I've always ridden fast.
Not recklessly - I'd tell myself - just fast. I knew the bike. I knew the road. When you're used to going 85, everyone else looks like they're standing still. You weave through gaps that barely exist. And every time you arrive early, every time you don't crash, it reinforces the belief: I'm not speeding. Everyone else is just slow.
That's what I told myself for years.
The Road That Went Nowhere
The road I was on was a narrow, unmarked highway in the middle of nowhere. A pack of us riding together, doing 85 because that was the only speed we knew.
But the road just kept going. No landmarks. No exits. Riders started blaming each other - wrong route, wrong pace, wrong leader. It got toxic. We all kept riding because when you've been going 85 for that long, pulling over feels like giving up.
Eventually, I pulled off. Not because I'd arrived anywhere - because I was running on fumes.
The Scenic Route
I found a new crew. Good bikes, good reputation, headed somewhere real. I joined up.
Their road was different. Smooth asphalt, gentle curves, 35 speed limit. Beautiful scenery. Places to pull over and breathe.
These riders cruised at 35 because they wanted to. They weren't slow. They were deliberate. There's a difference, and I didn't understand it at the time.
I thought I was better. I'd been riding 85 for so long - I deserved to take it easy for a while. So I took extra breaks. Coasted. Told myself I'd accelerate when it mattered. After all, catching up would be easy.
It wasn't. While I was enjoying the scenery, I'd fallen further behind than I realized. When the crew finally radioed, they were frustrated. Where are you? We've been waiting.
I'd explicitly asked them, early on: If I'm falling behind, tell me. For months, nothing. No warnings. Then suddenly, urgency.
The Detour
They said they'd wait. Just be quick.
So I started riding. Found a detour - an empty side road with no traffic, no speed limit. I opened it up.
In two days, I covered ground that others had been working toward for months. The engine humming, my heart racing. This was home. I got excited. Too excited.
But the detour had to end. I had to merge back onto the main road.
The Crash
I checked before merging. I signaled. But I didn't slow down.
When you merge from an empty road onto a busy highway, you have to match the speed of the traffic already there.
I came in hot, still going 85 in my head. I'd built something on the detour that overlapped with what others had been working on for months, and instead of slowing down and merging gracefully, I cut in like I owned the road.
I got into it with them. Not because they were wrong. Because I was too fast, too loud, too much.
Shortly after, I wasn't on the road at all. No warning. No second chance. Just pushed off the shoulder, in a country that wasn't even mine, watching traffic continue without me.
I couldn't accept it. I'd never been pulled over before. Never. I was always one of the fastest riders in any group I joined. How do you go from that to standing on the side of the road watching everyone else ride past?
So I didn't accept it. I told myself they were wrong. I lashed out - at the crew, at the road, at anyone who'd listen. Then I told everyone I didn't need them. I didn't need any crew. I'd ride alone - be a solo rider, go wherever I wanted, no road, no group, no rules. I'd be better off without them.
The Shoulder
What followed was the hardest stretch of my life.
I rode with no destination - just riding to ride. Sounds romantic until you realize you're just lost. Then I tried paving my own road. It collapsed before I could finish. Tried again. Failed again.
Depression doesn't feel like sadness. It feels like the road disappearing in front of you.
I had to leave the city I wanted to be in. Had to start over somewhere I didn't choose. Had to accept that all the speed in the world doesn't matter if you've ridden yourself off the road.
The Right Road
Eventually - slowly - I found a new one.
This road is different. The speed limit isn't 35. It's 85. Everyone here rides fast - not because they're reckless, but because that's the culture. If you go slow, people honk. They expect you to find shortcuts and share them.
For the first time, I'm not fighting the road. The road matches the rider, and the rider matches the road.
The speed wasn't the problem. The wrong road was.
And maybe more importantly: when you merge into someone else's lane, you slow down. Always.
What I Learned
Speed is not skill. The riders going 35 aren't worse than you. They're riding the speed that road calls for.
Rest stops warp your sense of time. You think you can catch up whenever you want. You can't. Momentum is harder to rebuild than you think.
Merge slow. When you join someone else's road, you don't get to dictate the speed. You earn the right to accelerate by first proving you can ride their speed. I skipped that step, and it cost me everything.
Find the road that fits. Not every road is for every rider. The lesson isn't to change who you are. It's to be honest about who you are, and find the road that wants what you're offering.
I'm on that road now. And I'm going 85. Visor up, throttle open, riders around me who actually want to be here. Finding shortcuts isn't frowned upon - it's expected. Slowing down isn't an option. And for once, that's not me being reckless. That's just the road.
I wake up excited to ride again. That hadn't happened in a long time.