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.
You always catch the heartbeat under the steel... that’s the part I hope lingers longer than the noise. The horizon has a way of humbling even the toughest riders, and I’m glad that line stayed with you. My daughters are the true legacy, engines that never stall, carrying strength older than asphalt.
That proverb felt like a pocket-sized compass, and I’m grateful you tucked it in with me. Thanks for leaving dust and light in return... makes the ride feel less solitary.
Oh this made me grin, Steve. Pocket compasses, dust, light… I think we accidentally packed each other’s pockets. Very sneaky, very good. Glad the ride felt a little less lonely~
Scars are the truest teachers I’ve ever had... they don’t let you forget the lesson, even when the road tries to. Books give wisdom, but the pavement writes it deeper, and I’m grateful you felt that in the lines.
Thank you for hearing the story in the noise and the quiet.
What a visceral ride this was. I could feel the road in this piece—the growl beneath you, the heat, the night tunnelling forward like memory itself. You write about speed and steel, but what struck me most was the vulnerability beneath it. The line about “the hardest men I knew cried when the horizon burned red” hit hard—because it holds both myth and truth at once.
There’s such tenderness here under all that grit, especially in the connection to your daughters and the history they carry. It feels like the engines, the land, and the legacy are all speaking to each other.
I really love the way you closed with that Arapaho proverb. Respect woven into the movement—like the road itself is listening.
Powerful writing. Thanks for taking us with you for a few miles today.
You rode right alongside the words... felt the growl, the heat, the tunnel of memory... and I’m grateful for that. The horizon line has always been myth and truth at once, and seeing the hardest men break at its fire taught me more than speed ever did.
The engines, the land, the legacy... you’re right, they speak to each other, and my daughters are the echo that keeps it alive. That Arapaho proverb felt like the road whispering back, reminding me respect is the only fuel that doesn’t run dry.
Thanks for carrying a few miles with me... makes the journey less solitary.
I’m glad the ride carried you through all those turns... from the roar of engines to the quiet of memory, and finally back to the soil where ancestors still speak. That’s the journey I hoped to trace, steel and spirit braided together.
Thank you for seeing the homestead in the horizon... it makes the trip feel complete.
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.
Dear Fragrance of tomorrow, Firefly
You always catch the heartbeat under the steel... that’s the part I hope lingers longer than the noise. The horizon has a way of humbling even the toughest riders, and I’m glad that line stayed with you. My daughters are the true legacy, engines that never stall, carrying strength older than asphalt.
That proverb felt like a pocket-sized compass, and I’m grateful you tucked it in with me. Thanks for leaving dust and light in return... makes the ride feel less solitary.
Steve
Oh this made me grin, Steve. Pocket compasses, dust, light… I think we accidentally packed each other’s pockets. Very sneaky, very good. Glad the ride felt a little less lonely~
Oh I love this —It feels like a story told by someone who didn’t learn their lessons from books but from scars.
Dear Brenda,
Scars are the truest teachers I’ve ever had... they don’t let you forget the lesson, even when the road tries to. Books give wisdom, but the pavement writes it deeper, and I’m grateful you felt that in the lines.
Thank you for hearing the story in the noise and the quiet.
Steve
What a visceral ride this was. I could feel the road in this piece—the growl beneath you, the heat, the night tunnelling forward like memory itself. You write about speed and steel, but what struck me most was the vulnerability beneath it. The line about “the hardest men I knew cried when the horizon burned red” hit hard—because it holds both myth and truth at once.
There’s such tenderness here under all that grit, especially in the connection to your daughters and the history they carry. It feels like the engines, the land, and the legacy are all speaking to each other.
I really love the way you closed with that Arapaho proverb. Respect woven into the movement—like the road itself is listening.
Powerful writing. Thanks for taking us with you for a few miles today.
Dear Nat,
You rode right alongside the words... felt the growl, the heat, the tunnel of memory... and I’m grateful for that. The horizon line has always been myth and truth at once, and seeing the hardest men break at its fire taught me more than speed ever did.
The engines, the land, the legacy... you’re right, they speak to each other, and my daughters are the echo that keeps it alive. That Arapaho proverb felt like the road whispering back, reminding me respect is the only fuel that doesn’t run dry.
Thanks for carrying a few miles with me... makes the journey less solitary.
Steve
It was a great piece Steve
Wow, what a trip. I love the conveyance from riding, to memory, to homestead and ancestors. Really effective stuff here!
Dear Gill,
I’m glad the ride carried you through all those turns... from the roar of engines to the quiet of memory, and finally back to the soil where ancestors still speak. That’s the journey I hoped to trace, steel and spirit braided together.
Thank you for seeing the homestead in the horizon... it makes the trip feel complete.
Steve