Riders, Legacy, and Love
The road growls under me... engine heat in my ribs, oil on my hands, headlights carving tunnels through the dark.
I broke bones chasing speed, motocross dust in my teeth, GP bikes screaming, then choppers… long nights with vets who laughed louder than the engines, their voices still echo in the throttle.
Texas winter spits rain, but the land remembers. My daughters carry blood that once walked here, strength older than asphalt, a legacy that doesn’t need chrome to shine.
Call me rider, call me fool for sunsets. I’ll take it. Because steel is nothing without skin, and the hardest men I knew cried when the horizon burned red.
I leave you today with this Arapaho proverb: “When we show respect for other living things, they respond with respect for us.”
Have a happy hump day, xo
Steve, the way you write makes the whole road feel warm under the boots. That mix of steel and heartbeat—you carry it like someone who’s lived both the noise and the quiet after it. And that line about the hardest men crying at red horizons… it stays.
Your daughters inheriting that kind of strength feels like its own kind of engine, one that doesn’t ever stall.
That Arapaho proverb lands soft too—like something you tuck into a jacket pocket and keep with you.
Happy mid-week to you too, Steve. Your stories always leave a little dust and a little light behind.
Oh I love this —It feels like a story told by someone who didn’t learn their lessons from books but from scars.