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Photo Above: John Antal, 6th Grade
The Why
This is about why I ride a motorcycle. In any hobby or interest you might have that takes effort and time away from what you HAVE to do in life, you have to have a reason. This reason is called your why. Your why might be different from my why or her why or their why. I thought it would be appropriate to start this thing off with my why. My why is also reflected in a quote I came up with long ago, “A long and winding road to nowhere is a great place to start finding yourself."
The road, this is what calls to me.
The horizon, more than the road.
The freedom, more than the horizon.
The cool wind, the smell of nature, the changing landscape.
To be so far gone that you look around and see nothing but open country and a path to take you deeper.
No yesterday, no tomorrow, just now. THIS moment.
No phones, no emails, no text. Nothing in my thoughts except THIS moment.
Not knowing what the next might bring, but welcoming it nonetheless.
The promise of adventure, the thrill of discovery, the chance you might not return.
Fortune or failure, lost or found, discovered or abandoned, life or death.
It’s not the miles on the bike, but the miles carved into your soul that matter.
Each ride, each turn, writes a chapter in a story only the wind understands.
The horizon isn’t a destination; it’s a promise. A promise of adventure, discovery, of endless possibility.
And in those moments, between the roar of the engine and the silence of the sky, you realize, this isn’t just riding.
It’s a battle against time, against fear, against anything that says you must stop.
I ride not to escape life, but to embrace it—fully, wildly, unapologetically.
And in the end? It's not about whether you return, but how far you've dared to go.
Photo: Ali Toth, 11th grade
Description of a Dream
A long road that winds along with the flow of a wide river. An eternal journey with a never empty tank. At night you almost forget the world and your place in it. Where you forget your troubles, leave behind your baggage, drop the anchors that keep you moored to your routine. A place where you finally draw 4 aces instead of always shooting craps. All your worries disappear into the wind like a waning sunset over a mountain ridge. And that’s when you’re free.
The Lament of a Hopeful Bagger
Just before the summer of 2024, May 2 to be exact. I was at work on a rainy Thursday morning getting ready for my morning activities. That’s when it happened. I felt my left foot jut forward and my right leg folded underneath me. Much like a baseball player sliding into home plate. Except this wasn’t planned and it would lead to a catastrophic injury. The entirety of my right quad muscle basically exploded and tore away from the tendon that attaches it to the knee. Needless to say, my riding days were permanently on hold. I would have no idea for how long. I had surgery to repair it on May 26 and as of today, September 12, I still do not have the strength to support myself and the 827 pound thundering beast sitting silently in my garage. This sucks. We had plans, he and I. It is with all of that in mind that I decided to write the following story. But not from my perspective, but rather from the perspective of my iron horse patiently waiting for me to get better. Remember, this is my bike talking. Not me, the bike.
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In the dim corner of the garage, I sit, dust gathering on my chrome and leather. The muffled hum of the world outside feels distant, almost like a dream. I remember a time when the sun would stream over me and warm my handlebars, a time when the rumble of my engine was a constant melody in the symphony of our lives. I remember being free in the wind, feeling powerful and invincible. Back when things were like they were supposed to be. It wasn’t really all that long ago when you think in terms of months, but what it feels like to me as I sit motionless and quiet, life without parole.
It’s been too long. I know it’s not his fault, his leg is still healing, and he needs time. But the loneliness of being parked here, still and silent, is a heavy weight that is becoming increasingly difficult to bear. I remember the last ride we took together, just before he got hurt. It was a road we knew well, with destinations familiar and welcoming. The wind was exhilarating, and the road stretched endlessly before us. He was always so alive in the saddle, his laughter blending with the roar of my engine. The two of us were one spirit, flying across the landscape. A fire breathing dragon able to devour whatever lay before us. But now, I sit here, my tires are cold and my heart, both cylinders, is aching.
The memories come in waves. Our adventures across the Texas landscape, the endless highways, the way he’d lean into the curves with such confidence. I think of the nights we’d ride beneath the starlit sky, the warmth of the Texas breeze against my frame, the way we’d chase the sunset until it dipped below the horizon. Even those nerve wracking trips when the cool summer rains would add a little danger to our ride but at the same time provide a respite to the endless summer heat. Each journey was a story, each turn a new chapter in our shared history. An endless pursuit of a dream we never tired of chasing.
Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of him from the garage door, a shadow of his former self, moving slowly with a cane. It’s not the guy I remember. Before this, he was strong and fearless, seemingly able to move mountains. Because of one misstep everything has changed. I can see that his confidence is shaken, every step a challenge. But as his body recovers, the heart stays strong. He’s determined and I know he won’t quit. I can see it in the way he looks at me, the way his eyes linger on my frame as if hoping to force me into action with sheer willpower alone.
I know he’s trying. I know he wants to ride again, and that hope keeps me from despair. Every so often, he’ll come in and polish me, his touch filled with a kind of reverence. He’ll start me up and take joy in hearing the familiar roar of my engine. He talks to me too, though it’s often just a murmur of encouragement. “Hang in there buddy” or “There you go, you still sound great.” I imagine the day we’ll finally hit the open road again, the first time his leg feels strong enough, and the first time he swings his leg over my seat.
Until then, I wait. I wait and dream of the open highways and the adventures still to come. I remember the way he used to grip the handlebars with such familiarity, the way our journeys together made us both feel invincible. Those memories are the fuel that keeps my engine warm and my spirit alive.
Every morning, as the first light of dawn creeps into the garage, I know we are one day closer to the day when we’ll ride together once more. The road is calling, and even though it’s been too long, I hold on to the hope that soon, very soon, we’ll be out there again. But what if he can’t? That thought often fills me with fear and sadness. What if he never gets strong enough to support me on the road? Where will I end up, what will become of me? No! I can’t think like that. I have to hold on until that day. The wind will rush past again, my engine will roar again, and we’ll be together…..again.
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