Riding Through the Storm: My Life on Two Wheels
I’ve been on two wheels pretty much my whole life. It all started with a five-horsepower mini bike when I was just six or seven years old. My first street-legal bike came in 1973—a Honda 360 CJ. I’m 66 now, and while I haven’t been riding since birth, it sure feels like it. Riding isn’t just something I do. It’s part of who I am.
You know how people say they wish they could fly? That they want to feel that freedom? Well, I’ve got a secret for you—get on a motorcycle, and you’re flying. That’s the feeling I’ve chased for decades. And I’ve held onto it—literally. Every bike I’ve ever bought, I still own… except for my first. I gave that ’73 Honda to my sister. These days, I’ve got nine bikes. I even built a big steel building in my backyard to house them all. It’s not just a collection—it’s my sanctuary.
One of my most unforgettable experiences happened on a cross-country trip with a friend. She was riding on the back, and we were camping along the way, just the two of us and the open road. Out west, everything feels different—bigger, quieter, more intense. We were at a remote campground, the kind where you just drop seven bucks in a box and pitch your tent. There wasn’t another soul around. No ranger, no fellow campers. Just us, a tent, and my bike.
That night, things turned fast. The radio crackled out that eerie alert tone—“Doo. Doo. Doo.” Tornado warning.
The wind picked up. Lightning started ripping across the sky like it was being drawn with a spark. I stood there thinking, Should I lay my bike down? I was scared it might blow away across the field. As the storm closed in, we made a quick decision to run for the only shelter in sight—a small cement-block bathroom building.
We sat in there, listening to the wind howl and thunder shake the walls. When it finally passed and we stepped back outside, it looked like the campground had been spared. But half a mile down the road, we saw it—total destruction. The tornado had carved a straight path through the area, flattening trees, snapping telephone poles, cutting power. It missed us by what felt like inches.
Somebody was looking out for us that night.
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