At a young age I had a love/hate relationship with reading. I grew up in a house of readers, with shelves overloaded with books. With an active imagination, you could usually find me outside playing or building elaborate worlds with Lego in my room. Books were everywhere, but my imagination was somewhere else. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t sit still long enough to finish one.

Reading mostly felt like a requirement enforced by teachers and authority figures. I consumed what I had to, then retreated to my own world and imagination.

There were moments in my youth when I connected with a few books or genres and tried to dive deeper into them, but the passion never truly grabbed hold of me the way it would later in life.

Fast forward to adult life and the stresses that come with it. It was in my thirties that my love of reading really took hold. I found myself looking for answers and an escape from the pressures of the world. Up until that point, I might read a book a year, but most of my reading came in the form of magazines. Then one day the switch was flipped. I developed an insatiable hunger for knowledge, and reading became one of the ways I could satisfy it.

I dove headfirst into psychology books about the human condition. I consumed books on Buddhism, self-help, personal development, and philosophy. All of this reading worked toward a goal I had set for myself: self-examination and a better understanding of my thoughts, my actions, and the world I was increasingly struggling to understand.

That period in my thirties was incredible. The things I was learning weren’t confined to the pages of the books. They changed how I understood myself, how I interacted with people, and ultimately how I approached my career. I found tremendous success in my work and in building relationships with people from all walks of life.

As I evolved, so did what I read.

I started finding deeper niches that combined the psychology I was drawn to with my love of motorcycles. I discovered stories about people who had reached a similar age, wrestled with similar questions, and happened to use two wheels as their vessels for figuring things out.

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Years have passed since my passion for reading took off, and like many things, there are ebbs and flows to our daily activities. This past year, I paused a successful career to pursue my passions and delve deeper into who I thought I was and who I could become. In that journey, I have learned so much and read an incredible number of books.

Reading has become part of my daily routine. When I stray from that routine, I can tell something is different in how I interact with the world. Morning coffee with a book, before each workday, brings out the best in me and allows a calmer, more peaceful version of myself to exist.

As a writer who spent most of my early years writing poetry and songs, the evolution to what I write and share with the world now feels almost inevitable. I’m thankful for anyone who reads my work, connects with it, and shares it with friends.

So in that spirit, I figured I’d share a few books that filled my soul this year. Books that challenged me, changed how I looked at the world, or simply kept me company when I needed it.

Maybe one of them will do the same for you.

The Perfect Vehicle — Melissa Holbrook Pierson

After being told The Perfect Vehicle was one of my Moto Mentor’s favorite books, not reading it was never really an option.

Listening to Melissa’s story and her inquiry into riding, and the meaning that two wheels have brought to her life, was refreshing and relatable. No matter where you are on your riding journey, I think you’ll instantly connect with this book and walk away wanting to hear more from her.

I can officially say that I may be more than just Guzzi-curious after hearing her story. The Perfect Vehicle will definitely be a multiple-read for me, and I know a Guzzi will be in my garage sooner than later.

Anarchy Evolution — Greg Graffin with Steve Olson

The band Bad Religion had a massive influence on me growing up. I instantly connected with the punk scene, but it was the intellectual bands and lyrics, like Greg’s, that really elevated the music and the scene for me.

Anarchy Evolution had the perfect blend of storytelling from Greg’s life while providing thought-provoking dialogue about religion and science that felt refreshing and grounded.

For someone who grew up with Bad Religion’s music, getting a glimpse into the mind behind many of those lyrics made this book especially meaningful. It reminded me that curiosity and questioning the world around us don’t have to come at the expense of having something to believe in.

Shop Class as Soulcraft — Matthew B. Crawford

If you’re a rider and thinker, you’ve probably heard of or read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Shop Class as Soulcraft is by no means the same book, but the values of quality and attention we bring to the work we do make the comparison easy to draw.

While Zen had an impact on me, Matthew Crawford took that torch and ran miles ahead.

It doesn’t matter if you’re a rider, mechanic, or customer service employee. There is something important about what you do and how you interact with the world around you. Pausing and taking a breath to make sure the job at hand is actually done, and ready to be sent out into the world, can be challenging in some lines of work.

But when you put your name on something with pride, you may start to approach things differently.

This is a must-read for anyone searching for answers, or simply searching for more meaning in what they do.

Maybe that's the best part of all of this. The books I've read over the years didn't just change how I think. They eventually gave me the courage to start putting some of my own thoughts onto paper. Throttle and Thoughts Vol. 1 is the result of that journey. It's a collection of motorcycle photography, stories, and reflections on the things we encounter along the road and within ourselves. In many ways, it's my attempt to create the kind of book I was looking for when I first started searching for answers. If any of that sounds like something you'd enjoy, you can find a copy of Throttle and Thoughts Vol. 1 on my site or click the button below.

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Well, it finally happened. I crashed a motorcycle.

Over the years, I have had my share of close calls, dropped bikes, and even a collision with deer (but never crashed). This time was different; I had no time to prepare, and as quickly as I saw it, I was on the ground, tumbling into a nearby drainage ditch.

This past week I’ve spent moving slowly, counting my blessings and enjoying the silence.

In these deep reflections, I realized that this might be one of the few times in my life I was prepared to slow down.

Sitting in silence has always been a challenge. I gained some ground during my time practicing zazen meditation, but as things do, it slipped away and became a memory.

In the silence of the day, as I navigate the pain of fractured bones and bruised muscles, I think back to the restlessness of my youth.

My free time was always filled with people and things. I didn’t know it at the time, but the silence hurt too much, and I needed consistent stimulation to keep the voices and emotions I didn’t want at bay.

During those years, I just chalked it up to being young and social.

Only now, with a more mature reflection on who I was and who I became, can I see what I was really doing to myself.

Fast forward 20-something years later, and I still battle with silence.

Only on my best days am I able to sit with my emotions. I tell myself I’m ok with solitude, at least most of the time. I convinced myself that is why I spend so much time on two wheels. To be alone with my thoughts and work through whatever needs attention.

It wasn’t until this crash and the aftermath that I realized I had been doing what I always do. Fill my free time with activities and convince myself that I’m doing something else.

I have been so focused on developing and creating my space in the world that I forgot to stop and sit with what’s already been built.

In the silence, I’ve seen what I have done and where I’m falling short.

Take this as a reminder to stay quiet.

Listen to your heart.

The hardest part is not building a life; it’s pausing to realize you’re actually living in one.

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Mondays have become my preferred riding day. They come with as many drawbacks as advantages. The roads are quieter and the traffic lighter, but many of the small businesses I enjoy supporting are closed. In a way, that’s part of the appeal and forces me to ride without a destination and encourages me to wander into places I might otherwise overlook.

After a morning coffee with a friend and a ride through the hidden hills and backroads of the Hudson Valley, I pointed the bike east toward Massachusetts.

I’ve spent plenty of time riding through the Berkshires over the years. The roads winding through the southeastern corner of the state, where Massachusetts meets New York and Connecticut, are some of the most underappreciated in the Northeast. Although this region is practically my backyard, it had been some time since I’d properly explored them. Riding past Bash Bish Falls and descending Mount Washington never gets old, but on this day it wasn’t the roads that left the biggest impression on me.

It was a small town called Housatonic.

I’ve passed through here many times. It’s the kind of place that could easily be overlooked if you weren’t paying attention. For years, I’ve been drawn to it for reasons I couldn’t fully explain. Like many old mill towns throughout the Northeast, it wears its history in plain sight. The remnants of industry still stand as reminders of a different era, and for a long time the town carried the appearance of a place whose best days were behind it.

Yet over the years I noticed subtle changes. Old buildings finding new purpose. Signs of investment. New businesses appeared where there had once been empty storefronts. I’d often thought about stopping to walk around and take photographs, but I never did.

That is, until now.

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As I entered town from the south, I passed beneath a train trestle and noticed a tea house that always seemed to be closed whenever I rode through. This time the lights were on.

I rode past it before finally deciding to stop and check it out.

After taking a slow lap around town, I made my way back to ExtraSpecialTeas.

A group of people sat on the front deck playing music and singing together. It wasn’t a performance. It seemed more of a gathering of friends.

Inside, the shop looked like many of the independent coffee houses and markets that dot small towns across New England. Local goods lined the shelves. People were working quietly at tables. Quiet conversations drifted through the room. What stood out wasn’t the decor or the menu. It was the atmosphere. I was greeted with a smile and shown where to order. Simple enough, yet something about the interaction felt genuine, warm, and unforced. I ordered my coffee and spent some time wandering through the shop before stepping back outside.

The town itself was quiet. Cars moved through the main street, but there were few pedestrians. In that stillness, I began to notice details that would otherwise disappear into the background. The old but well-maintained buildings and small businesses of all types. Looking closely I saw signs of people investing their time and energy into a place they care about.

What I found myself appreciating wasn’t simply the town. It was what the town appeared to represent.

Seeing old structures being used once again speaks to resilience. Seeing people build businesses from their homes or storefronts speaks to optimism. Seeing a community create gathering places where strangers of all walks of life are welcomed speaks to something we seem to hear less and less about these days. The longer I sat there with my coffee, the more I realized that what I was feeling wasn’t nostalgia for a bygone era.

It was hope.

With the constant stream of headlines, outrage, conflict, and division pushed through every screen we own, it’s easy to walk away with the impression that everything is broken. It’s easy to believe that people are becoming more disconnected, more selfish, and more isolated.

Yet sitting outside ExtraSpecialTeas on an ordinary Monday afternoon told a different story.

People were sharing music.

Neighbors were gathering.

A small business was thriving.

An old town was finding new life.

Good things were happening.

The inclusion was immediate and the impact was obvious. Even as a stranger passing through, I felt welcomed into the atmosphere that had been created there. By the time I finished my coffee, I felt lighter than when I had arrived.

As I geared up and prepared to leave, I couldn’t stop thinking about how easy it would have been to ride right past like I had done countless times before.

Motorcycles have taken me to incredible places, and there are still infinite roads left to explore. Yet some of the most meaningful discoveries aren’t found at the end of a long journey. Sometimes they’re waiting behind a familiar door in a town you’ve passed through a hundred times.

On a nearly perfect Monday in the Berkshires, an afternoon cup of coffee reminded me that the world is often better than the headlines would have us believe.

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The hotel breakfast in Beaumont managed to be the worst of the entire trip. Even the free Starbucks somehow tasted off.

It didn’t matter much.

Outside the weather was a perfect seventy-five degrees and clear skies. The kind of day that makes even long highway miles enjoyable.

Most of the ride would take place on the wide, straight highways of Texas. While the scenery occasionally blurred into repetition, the ability to cruise comfortably at faster than normal highway speeds meant the miles disappeared quickly.

Every now and then we peeled off onto smaller roads, crossing bridges over lakes and reservoirs before eventually returning to the main thoroughfare.

A couple from Texarkana rolled into the park on their bikes while we were taking a break. Before long we were leaning against the picnic table trading the usual roadside conversation; where we were headed, how perfect the weather had been for riding, and how they always keep one eye out for the occasional alligator in the lakes around there.

After our break we headed north for a quick 16 mile ride through southwest Arkansas. Formen was exactly the type of midwest town you’d expect, and very proud of their number one export– country singer Tracey Lawrence.

From there the destination became Broken Bow, Oklahoma,

I hadn’t been back to Oklahoma since my family moved away when I was very young. Even though Broken Bow sits on the opposite side of the state of my birth place, simply crossing the border felt meaningful.

Eventually the sign appeared.

Welcome to Oklahoma.

I pulled off the road and stopped for a photo. It had been a long time since I’d done the classic roadside sign picture, but this one felt worth it.

The region sits within the Choctaw Nation. The land was greener and more lush (even in early spring) than I expected. As we rode route 3 west the scenery was flat compared to the terrain I’m used to riding back home in the Northeast. However the big open sweepers and setting sun welcomed us in like a warm hug.

Broken Bow itself had a small historic downtown, though by the time we arrived most of the businesses had closed for the evening. We ended up grabbing dinner at a Mexican restaurant near the hotel before settling in for the night.

That day’s soundtrack had been a few albums by The War on Drugs, which always enhance the mood.

As the days miles passed I found myself thinking about finances, riding more, and family, and occasionally drifting back to my old career. Not so much the job itself, but the parts of it that came with being in leadership: building a team, mentoring younger people, and watching them grow into their roles. Those were the rewards that stuck with me, the ones that tend to resurface when you have long stretches of road and time to think.

At the same time I couldn’t ignore the reality around me.

I was spending my days surrounded by motorcycles—writing about them, riding them, living inside the world that had inspired me for years.

What more could I need?

I knew leaving a stable career to pursue a dream and my passions would come with a few stipulations. After all, I’m the new guy in a new business and have to work my way back up. Most days the trade has been worth it, stepping away from the pressure of a director role for a position where my focus is learning a new industry while letting my customer service and people skills show through in the day-to-day.

Still, rising costs of living have a way of applying pressure, and the constant hum of my seeker mindset, always looking for growth and prosperity, can turn those thoughts into self-imposed stress.

The next morning we left Broken Bow and quickly found one of the best roads of the entire trip: Route 259 heading north.

The elevation climbed above two thousand feet as we entered the Ouachita National Forest. The road twisted through the mountains while fog clung to the higher ridges. At one overlook we stopped and looked down into the valley we had just climbed from.

Those are the moments when riding feels the most alive.

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Soon after turning onto Route 59 my time in Oklahoma ended as we crossed back into Arkansas.

The state had always existed in my mind mostly through a few well-known exports—Walmart, Bill Clinton, JB Hunt, and the occasional viral video of the Arkansas highway patrol chasing down sport bikes.

But riding through it revealed something else entirely.

The highlands slowly gave way to farmland as we approached the Arkansas River, eventually leading us toward Memphis and the final stretch of the trip.

Knowing the ride was almost over made every mile feel sharper.

In just a couple days I’d be back in the Northeast, back to routine, back to winter slowly fading into spring.

It made me wonder why travel has such a powerful effect on us.

Why do so many people come home from a trip ready to change their lives?

Why does distance from our daily routines suddenly make things clearer?

This trip had been planned for the hardest part of the year, the long stretch of winter when riding feels impossibly far away. The goal was simple: reset the mind, spark creativity again, and make the final push toward spring.

In that sense the trip did exactly what it was meant to do.

And then some.

This is the final part of the Six Days South series. Thank you following along on this journey. If you missed parts 1-4, here they are again Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4.

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The Morning light separates the curtains. Rolling over to adjust, the day’s defeat has already set in. With tight shoulders and a heavy heart, the motivation to get up comes from the little things. A ride on the bike, a coffee date at noon, or sometimes it’s just a full bladder.

​Anxiety and depression manifest themselves in so many ways, and it’s not just for the mentally ill. Modern life has become easy and afforded a lifestyle many would not have been able to imagine 50-60 years ago. Within this ease lies a restlessness that is slowly eating us all from the inside out. The drive to earn, collect, and become someone to be remembered pulls most of us through the day. The bigger the house, the nicer the clothes, the more toys in the garage, will show everyone how successful we are. We earn, network, and repeat the cycle endlessly, all to showcase a life sold to us through marketing campaigns from the moment we are born.

​Although some seem to move through life more easily than others, don’t be fooled. Their threshold for pain and bullshit might just be higher. During my short time on earth, I, too, have struggled with the aforementioned. Whether I was in a blue-collar job unloading produce from a truck, or sitting in an office as an acting director in corporate America. Something always followed me and showed itself in every face I interacted with. That was navigating families are tough, work is hard, and life is a fucking challenge.

​Stress and pent-up anxiety showed themselves in every face I interacted with. Seeing that, you’d think we’d be able to band together and lift each other up, yet we still hide behind our masks and pass judgment when someone is having an off day or not pulling their fair share of the workload.

​Is it the same nervous energy that pushes us forward that allows us to leave our fellow man out in the cold? Is it the self-centered internal battles that shower us in shame so we are unable to speak up and ask for help?

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So many of us are suffering, and although some days are better than others, and you can’t always see the pain in everyone’s faces, I promise you it’s still there. Although I do not have the answers on how to feel better, I have been part of small communities that can dull the pain. Ironically, the same late-stage capitalism that hollowed out so much of our shared sense of purpose also gave many of us the freedom to find meaning through hobbies, passions, and communities of like-minded people.

​That’s why a morning coffee with friends matters more than we realize. Why a long motorcycle ride feels therapeutic. Why a familiar face at a local shop can quietly pull someone back from the edge without either person even realizing it.

​Even though we are told fulfillment comes from achievement, accumulation, and attention, most days survival comes from small interactions. A conversation. A shared laugh. Someone asking how you’re doing and actually waiting for the answer.

​That’s also why rides like the Distinguished Gentleman’s Ride resonate with so many people. Beneath the polished bikes and dressed-up riders is something much more human. A reminder that community still matters. That checking in on your friends matters. That men are carrying far more than they often let on.

​Maybe the ride is really just an excuse to bring people together long enough to remind each other that none of us are completely alone in this.

​I don’t think the pain ever fully disappears. Life remains hard, uncertain, and heavy in ways we rarely want to admit out loud. But community softens the edges. Purpose can still be found in the spaces between productivity. And sometimes just knowing someone else understands the weight you’re carrying is enough to get you out of bed in the morning.

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Louisiana has a way of announcing itself immediately.

The landscape changed almost instantly. As we rode through the small town of Vidalia, I wondered if there was bayou water sitting quietly just beyond the trees. As we rode south on Louisiana 15, the road twisted along a levee with farmland stretching out on the opposite side.

It felt less like entering another state and more like entering another country. A flat endless landscape is not the normal riding I experience back home where I’m nestled between the Catskills, Adirondack, Green, and Taconic mountain ranges.

At one point I rode up onto the levee in enduro mode while Jesse stayed on the highway below on his K1600. For a few minutes we rode parallel to each other—one bike high above the road, the other cruising steadily along the pavement.

It was one of those absurd travel moments that feels perfectly normal when you’re in it.

Eventually we reached Lafayette where we stopped at Cycle Gear so Jesse could grab gloves and some body armor. Afterward we grabbed a quick lunch of fried catfish, shrimp, clams, and okra before continuing south.

From there the road carried us through the Rockefeller Wildlife Refuge along the Gulf of Mexico.

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The air was cool and humid, the kind of heavy coastal air that sticks to your skin. What surprised me most was how rural the area was. Houses stood elevated above the ground, prepared for the floods that inevitably come with living this close to the water. Even the schools were raised high above the land.

There’s something admirable about the people who choose to stay in places like this.

If there is one thing we have managed really well on this planet, its resilience and survival through determination. If your fellow man or wild animals haven’t tried to take you out, you can count on mother nature to throw a curve ball your way every few years. When we find the place we truly call home, we’ll do anything to keep that dream alive. Seeing the resilience of people still claiming their piece of the American dream on flood lands, engulfs me with hope that with the right attitude anyone can stay afloat in the face of adversity (no pun intended).

As we continued west, a dense fog rolled in and slowly swallowed the road ahead of us.

By the time we reached Cameron, LA we found ourselves waiting for a ferry before continuing along the Gulf. The fog gave everything a strange, quiet mood. It felt almost surreal riding through it.

The Lost Highway soundtrack played in my helmet for that stretch of road. How fitting it ended up being.

As we approached Port Arthur, Texas the mood shifted again. The calm coastal landscape gave way to massive oil refineries rising out of the lowlands. Towers burned gas into the night sky while pipes and steel structures stretched in every direction.

The glow of the refineries lit the clouds above us like something from a post-apocalyptic movie.

I had spent plenty of time in Texas before, mostly for work and in Houston, but seeing the region from the saddle of a motorcycle changed the feeling entirely.

It was eerie. Beautiful in its own industrial way.

We eventually reached Beaumont after sunset, checked into the hotel, grabbed dinner, and retreated to the room.

In the parking lot a few night workers moved quietly around their trucks, preparing for long shifts ahead.

Somewhere during the ride that day a thought had stuck with me.

We tend to remember the difficult days more clearly because they are rare. The same is true with travel. The unusual moments; the fog, the strange towns, the unexpected conversations. They are the ones that stay with us long after the trip ends.

This is part 4 of the Six Days South series. The final part, 5, The Long Way Home drops later this month.

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The morning started with a hotel breakfast that felt surprisingly perfect after the long ride the night before: a cheese bagel with strawberry cream cheese and a cup of coffee while a mist hung lightly in the air outside.

The temperature hovered in the mid-sixties as we rode the short distance to Elvis Presley’s birthplace. We snapped a few photos in front of the small house before heading into downtown Tupelo.

The town itself was exactly what you’d hope for—southern heritage carefully blended with new construction and small businesses. Not overly polished, but clearly proud of its identity.

Our first real stop of the morning was a coffee shop called Lost & Found.

The beans were roasted onsite and the cappuccino I ordered was one of the best I’d had in a long time. While we waited for our drinks, a local struck up a conversation after noticing the riding gear and helmets sitting on the counter.

He introduced himself as the owner of Fuel Motorcycles in Tupelo.

Moments like that happen often when you travel by motorcycle. Something about the bike acts like a magnet for conversation. Within minutes we were talking about bikes, the trip, and family back home in the northeast.

After finishing our coffee he invited us to stop by the shop.

Fuel Motorcycles turned out to be far larger than I expected. Alongside Kevin’s personal collection and a showroom full of bikes, the shop also moves a huge volume of Harley Davidsons. He mentioned they were the second-largest used Harley dealer in the country and had sold something like fifty-nine bikes in the previous month (February) alone.

Walking through the shop, it was clear the people working there were genuine motorcycle people.

We talked about bikes, riding culture, and writing for a while before eventually heading back out toward the road. The original plan had included tracking down a BMW enthusiast in Starkville, but the contact didn’t pan out.

That didn’t really matter.

Those spontaneous interactions often become the most memorable parts of a trip. If you’re a rider you already know, but it’s the two wheeled community that invites so many in and creates a family of sorts connected by the two wheels. As we age it’s easy to lose ourselves and the dreams of who we’d become when we were young. Riders are the lucky ones, even though many of us are loaners and drifters, the moto community welcomes us each time we make contact. This realization over the years is what has motivated me to get involved with more of the local groups in my area.

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Eventually we found our way onto the Natchez Trace Parkway.

It was still early spring. Most of the trees were bare, but the further south we rode the greener things became. Buds were starting to form and the grass had already begun its slow return.

By midday the temperature had climbed into the mid-eighties.

My Morning Jacket became the soundtrack for the ride as the miles unfolded beneath us.

“Sec Walking” Off the album Evil Urges came on at exactly the right moment.

“Left leg, right leg
One leg at a time
I keep on walkin’”

Later the song “Outta My System” followed.

There was something about those songs that mirrored what the trip itself seemed to be doing—working things out slowly, mile by mile. The ride through the south had me working through the never ending search for meaning in my work that is the 9-5. I had spent years learning and building a career that brought both fulfillment and a tremendous amount of stress. The journey ended strategically in a fashion that some might have viewed as quickly or carelessly to pursue a world surrounded by bikes. No regrets, but the stirring in my soul started again wondering what’s next? The evolution of me will never be complete, and the need to make an impact in an organization and community has grown more important as I age.

We stopped for lunch at a place called the Crossroads Store in Reganton, Mississippi.

It sat at a four-way corner surrounded by abandoned buildings, the kind of place that feels like it holds decades of stories inside its walls. As we walked in, a local stepped outside to smoke a cigarette and sip his beer. He seemed excited to see two northern riders passing through.

Inside, the walls were covered with folk art and old music instruments. It felt like the type of place that probably came alive on weekend nights.

Lunch was simple and cheap, but the hospitality was better than expected.

When we stepped back outside I caught myself thinking about how welcoming Mississippi had been.

I’m not sure why I would have expected anything different. This is one reason I find traveling so important, it puts things into perspective. Life is not what we see in the news or the carefully curated opinions that show up in the algorithms on social media. We are more real, and for the most part welcome interactions with those that are different. It’s easy to forget who we are as a nation when stuck in our local bubble.

Later that afternoon we continued south toward Natchez, MS, hoping to catch the sunset over the Mississippi River.

When we rolled into town I had to remind myself we hadn’t crossed into Louisiana yet. The architecture had a distinctly French influence and the quiet streets felt like they belonged to another era.

On a Tuesday night the town was calm and almost sleepy, perfect for two tired travelers looking for a place to eat and rest before the next day’s ride.

This is part 3 of the Six Days South series. Part 4, Fog, Refineries, and the Gulf is coming in a few weeks.

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Hotel coffee and breakfast held us over until the next stop. Before heading out for the morning we stopped at a car wash to rinse the road grime off the bikes and grabbed coffee at a small shop nearby. The baristas were friendly, in the easy unhurried way you tend to find in small southern towns. While waiting for our drinks I had a strange realization: something about the way southern women talk and carry themselves reminds me of my aunt and grandmother. I couldn’t quite explain why this experience was different than others, but the familiarity stuck with me.

Not long after we stepped outside, the town cop rolled into the lot and started chatting with us. Two guys on loaded BMW motorcycles tend to stand out in a small village like this. Instead of suspicion we got curiosity. He asked where we were from, where we were headed, and offered a few road recommendations before heading off on patrol.

Moments like that are one of the quiet perks of motorcycle travel. The bike itself becomes an introduction.

Leaving Moulton, Alabama we headed south on route 33 .The road cut through the Black Warrior National Forest and finally gave us our first taste of elevation and curves. Nothing dramatic, five hundred feet at best, but after months of winter and straight highways the last few days, it felt like a mountain pass.

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Before reaching our main destination for the day we made a stop that every northern rider eventually makes when traveling south.

Buc-ee’s.

The newly built one outside of Birmingham in the town of Leeds, AL, looked like a small airport terminal disguised as a gas station. For someone from the Northeast it feels less like a fuel stop and more like a roadside attraction. Clean bathrooms, endless snacks, and enough gas pumps to refuel a convoy. I highly recommend the brisket sandwich. It might even be the best damn gas station grub you can have.

After stretching our legs and grabbing a few things for the road, we headed toward Barber Motorsports Museum.

Nothing about the place prepares you for the scale of it.

We spent nearly four hours walking through the museum and still didn’t see everything. The basement level was closed that day, which meant an entire floor of motorcycles and cars we’d have to miss.

Even without it, the place was overwhelming.

Some of the highlights for me were the Buell and the Motus bikes, machines that represented ambitious ideas that never quite found their place in the market. I was also drawn to the random BMW “Oilheads” scattered throughout the collection. There were plenty of vintage BMWs, but surprisingly not many K-bikes.

Seeing a Britten in person was something I’d always hoped for. The pink parts of the bike looked almost orange under the lights, which was slightly disappointing but still incredible to witness up close. If you’re not familiar, John Britten was a self-taught engineer from Christchurch, New Zealand who built the radical Britten V1000 in a small workshop during the early 1990s. His handmade machine stunned the racing world, beating major factory teams with homegrown engineering and a fiercely independent spirit.

Other bikes caught my eye as we wandered the floors: a Radd MC2, the strange BMW C2, a Ducati Paso 745, Morbidelli machines, and more beautiful Moto Guzzi’s than I could count.

With so many bikes to look at, I not only found a few new oddballs to dream about, but I was really able to soak in the bikes that have defined my moto-story over the years. Seeing the evolution of specific models and the bikes with such daring designs that provided inspiration to future models even though they never found their own footing. It’s in these “failures” that allow me to reflect back on some of my more decisive choices in life. Even though they all were not perfect, they helped shape the current person I have become.

Eventually the closing announcements echoed through the building and we were pushed back toward the parking lot. This visit not only made an impact but a vow to return as soon as possible.

From Barber we had a little over two hours of riding east to reach our hotel in Tupelo, MS.

Somewhere along that ride the sun began to drop.

Watching a sunset on the open road is always special, but this one had a weight to it I can’t fully explain. The pink of the sky slowly bled into deep blue as the Alabama landscape opened itself up in front of us. The sun would disappear below the horizon only to reveal itself again as the road curved and twisted west.

Each turn of the road brought it back into view.

For a moment it felt like the sun was playing the same game my subconscious often plays when I ride, disappearing just long enough before revealing something again.

Life has a way of working itself out on the road.

Sometimes I leave on a ride looking for answers. Other times the answers seem to find me whether I’m looking for them or not. And this is why I ride. Over the years it has become more than a hobby, it really is a way of life. It has grown into something deeper than the stereotypical throttle therapy so many riders pine about. The need to breath and think on two wheels is as important to me as breathing and sleeping.

By the time we reached Tupelo it was dark. We grabbed dinner at a ramen place and checked into the hotel around nine.

Three miles away sat Elvis Presley’s birthplace.

That would be tomorrow morning’s first stop.

This is part 2 of the Six Days South series. Stay tuned for part 3, Strangers and Motorcycle People.

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So when the chance comes to escape it, even briefly, you take it.

I left work on Saturday at 2pm, packed the last of my gear into the truck, and started heading south. The plan was simple enough: drive through the night with my good friend and riding partner, Jesse. We headed to my sister’s place in Tennessee to leave our truck and trailer and start the trip from there. The route took us through New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Kentucky, and finally into Tennessee, sometime around 8 a.m.

Back home, it was five degrees and snowing.

Here it was seventy.

That kind of temperature swing doesn’t just warm your body, it resets something in your head. Winter feels far away almost immediately.

We visited with my sister for about an hour before the bikes came off the trailer. After the overnight drive, the temptation to nap was strong, but the weather was too perfect to waste. Within minutes, we were on the road, heading out of Covington toward Whiteville, TN on a series of backroads that immediately reminded me why these trips matter.

Lunch was at the Country Cafe in Whiteville, the kind of small-town spot that feels unchanged for decades. The food was exactly what you’d expect—simple, filling, and perfect after the first few hours on a motorcycle.

From there, the road carried us through Chickasaw State Park and eventually into the town of Finger, Tennessee. Finger had all the things you’d hope a town called Finger might have: the Finger Church of Christ, the Finger Family Dance, and a few other oddly named landmarks that made us laugh every time we passed another sign.

It’s funny how those little absurd moments stick with you on trips like this. They break up the rhythm of the road and remind you that travel isn’t just about the destination—it’s about the strange little details along the way.

Eventually, the exhaustion caught up with us.

At some point after riding through the park, we both hit the wall at the same time. Between the overnight drive and the first full day of riding, we had been awake for roughly thirty-six hours. The smart move was obvious: head straight for Muscle Shoals, find a hotel, and call it a day.

So that’s exactly what we did.

The bikes were parked, the gear was dropped in the room, and by six o’clock that evening, we were already in bed watching Lifetime movies like a couple of middle-aged guys who had finally accepted their limits.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was exactly what we needed.

The trip had barely begun, but winter already felt far away.

Somewhere between the overnight drive, the first warm miles on the bike, and the strange little towns of rural Tennessee, something had shifted. The road has started doing what it always seems to do, quietly working on whatever is going on in the back of your mind.

If the last few years have taught me anything, it’s the importance of paying attention to my mental health and taking time to reset before burnout. The long, cold winters of the northeast are bound to wear down even the strongest soul. And even though I tend to ride through the cold, it’s not the same as long days in the saddle exploring.

For now, though, the only thing that mattered was sleep.

Tomorrow, the real riding would begin.

This is part 1 of the Six Days South series. Next up is The Museum and the Sunset.

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I try to ignore the news and all that comes with it, yet the hate, control, and posturing of those in power always find their way into the feed of my life. I have always believed that staying informed mattered. Knowing what both the left and the right are doing felt important, or at least the responsible thing to do. Still, I never identified as conservative or liberal. Both have always felt like cults of the extreme. Perhaps that makes me moderate; perhaps it does not. What I do know is that I believe in love and common sense, and neither seems to have much of a seat at the table anymore.

When you study history, or even casually track it, you see that turmoil and unrest are not new. Every generation in the last 100+ years has lived through wars, racial division, corrupt politicians, and men in power serving their own interests. I am not sure why this moment feels so different. Maybe it is not. But it feels different. It feels louder, uglier, and more saturated. It feels like the idiots have arrived in force, and they brought megaphones.

When the top ten percent of Americans own close to seventy percent of the wealth, it is no wonder we feel such a deep divide. What I struggle to understand is why so many people believe anyone in power genuinely cares about them. Or why sending billions of our tax dollars overseas, to only conveniently line the pockets of that same top tier, is somehow framed as a benefit to the average person. It is the same people who rage on Facebook about corporate greed and the cost of living while completely ignoring how little agency or resilience we have left. We outsource our survival, then act surprised when we are powerless.

What is hardest to digest is watching the hate and greed sensationalized by the media play out on a micro level in our own towns. We work ourselves into the ground trying to make a living, trying to find a little happiness, and yet we are so quick to forget that our neighbors, coworkers, and friends are doing the same. The traits I despise in our so-called leaders, the manipulation, the selfishness, the casual cruelty, feel like they lie dormant in all of us. It is as if once a certain level of status or net worth is reached, something dark is unlocked. But maybe it was always there.

I think back to my time studying Buddhism, sitting with the Five Precepts. They read like common sense. Commit to ethical conduct. Do not harm. Be honest. Be mindful. Abstain from killing. Who could read that and say, No, that is not for me? And yet, lived experience tells a very different story. Somewhere along the way, we collectively decided that these ideas were optional, inconvenient, and naive. What have we allowed ourselves to become?

Where is the hope in all of this? I am not sure there is any. Our lives are our own, and we are deeply selfish creatures, trapped inside our individual bubbles. Even when we think we have it figured out, we do not. We catch fleeting glimpses of what “right” looks like through our experiences, but the moment we try to apply those lessons to new people or new systems, they collapse under the weight of our ego, fear, and greed.

The uncomfortable truth is that the issue is also a reflection of me. I am not smarter than anyone else, even though it sometimes feels that way. And that feeling alone should be a warning sign. Maybe it is just another form of brainwashing, another product of media cycles and rage-driven algorithms doing exactly what they were designed to do. I am just as soft-minded as anyone else. My quiet rage surfaces and shapes my perception of the world in the same way it does for those I disagree with.

In the end, we may truly be alone. The world we live inside our own heads is not reality at all. Sometimes I am convinced that reality itself is a kind of fever dream, and that life is less a shared truth and more a collective psychosis pointing toward something greater than any of us will ever fully understand or experience.

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It is only a few days into the month, but the weeks leading up to it have already delivered snow, cold, and the familiar year-end buzz we have all come to expect. Over the years, I have intentionally designed a life with less stress at home and worked toward a career that does not demand squeezing every last penny out of the final working days of the year. That kind of peace does not come easily. It starts with learning to live with less and choosing to surround yourself with people who value time and memories more than the opinions of shareholders.

It was at the height of my career that I realized much of the stress I carried was self-imposed, driven by my own pursuit of what I believed success was supposed to look like. That same trait was something many of my previous employers found valuable and easy to exploit. I do not fully blame them. It is human nature to take what is offered and benefit from it. The real issue was that I could no longer see the forest for the trees. I was locked into a grind that benefited others more than it benefited me. When you are that deep in it, who is really looking out for you in the long run to make sure you do not burn yourself out? If leaders and mentors cannot recognize when their protégés are nearing that edge, they have failed not only the individual, but the larger project they are trying to build.

As the days grow shorter, the motivation to leave a warm bed becomes harder to find. No matter how many influencers insist you must wake up at 5 a.m., start your day with a workout, and follow their prescribed formula for success, I have learned that while routine is foundational for me, rest matters too. January and February are some of the hardest months for those of us living in the cold northern hemisphere. Seasonal depression shows up in many forms, and for me it often looks like struggling to leave the couch with a stack of books within arm’s reach. Even with projects waiting, it takes extra effort to trudge through the snow, turn on the heater in the garage, then retreat back into the house like a field mouse while waiting for the space to warm to a tolerable fifty degrees. Some days, that effort feels heavier than others.

Writing serves as therapy for me. It allows me to put into words the reminders and affirmations I need to carry myself through another winter week. As I hunker down through a few more stretches of harsh weather and begin planning for the year ahead, I am reminding myself to leave room for grace and leniency. Life happens, and adaptation is part of the deal. I am learning to trust my focus and listen to my body when it demands rest.

This is a reminder that it is okay to work hard and chase your dreams, but do it for yourself. Do not place your faith in others to make it happen. In the end, they are chasing their own dreams too.

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Over the course of the year, I had the privilege of seeing a few of my favorite bands from my youth in small, intimate rooms. There was a time when live music was a weekly ritual for me, but like most things, life shifted, and those priorities changed.

So when Built To Spill announced a show in Woodstock, New York, I didn’t hesitate. Some opportunities don’t wait to be overthought.

Doug Martsch’s vocals and storytelling weaved themselves into my music catalog over the years. You see, I have been a Built to Spill fan for over 25 years, and even though his music would fade in and out of rotation, it was never out of reach. Whether I was making playlists or finding the right vibe for a long ride, there was a song or album just waiting for me.

​Standing in the crowd, watching Doug and his band tear through the set, I was struck by how controlled and unforced it all felt. Decades of work were visible in the restraint, the confidence, the absence of excess. This was someone who knew exactly who he was on stage. His musical journey and road to success was not always easy and paved with gold, but the raw passion and connection to his craft is what allowed him to do what he loves for so long. In an interview with Salt Lake Magazine, Doug put words to something I’ve been unpacking myself:

“When you’re young, you’re figuring out what you can do and what limits to push, who you want to sound like. At my age, I know what my limitations are and what I sound like.”

That idea landed hard. I’ve lived much like a chameleon, not blending in, but evolving in cycles. Growth, for me, has meant recognizing when a skin no longer fits and having the courage to shed it. Some people seem locked into a forever skin. Others change without ever realizing it happened.

I’ve always been an artist, even as my mediums shifted with the environments I found myself in. Life didn’t pass me by. I was fully in it. But my commitment to creating often took a back seat. Realizing that was the turning point. I didn’t want passion to be something I revisited. I wanted it to be something I practiced.

​It was with intent and focus that I knew I was ready to shed another skin and begin a new era of creating. Writing brings me immense joy, not just for the therapeutic reasons I often speak of but also the connection it fosters with friends and strangers.

Whether I’m writing poetry in a journal, songs for a band, or documenting an emotion that was revealed inside of me during a long motorcycle ride, I, too, have begun to understand one’s limitations. Going forward, my life will be shaped by more intention, fewer excuses, and a clearer understanding of my own limits. Writing brings me joy not just as therapy, but as a form of connection.

And if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: Built To Spill will always be part of the soundtrack of a life well lived.

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It seems like Americans evolve into two camps, Christmas or Thanksgiving. I’ve always found myself leaning toward Thanksgiving. Although both holidays are about spending time with family and friends, one has become too corporate and wrought with capitalism and greed, and I have naturally pulled away from it because of the stress and emptiness it can leave. As a kid none of that matters, it is food, family and gifts, what could be better?

Even as a child I preferred Thanksgiving at my grandparents house. The chance to see my cousins and go outside to play, or hear tall tales from my grandpa, or weird stories from my uncles and distant relatives always excited my imaginative mind. Flash forward many years later and Thanksgiving turned into Friendsgiving. This was a chance to get all your favorite friends together, have a potluck, drink alcohol, listen to music and just have FUN.

Life does its thing and the circles that we find our living trajectory on end up having us recreate the traditions from our past for new generations. Although they are not the same, they end up passing on memories to others that will hopefully have an impact like the ones that inspired us.

This year I was lucky enough to score a free 1997 BMW R1100RT in early November. The catch? It was disassembled and needed to be put back together. Although I had most of the parts I needed, I still needed to acquire a few more things and tap into the knowledge and skill of some friends to complete my biggest moto-mechanical undertaking to date. Working on a 30 year old motorcycle in a heated garage during the winter months is not everyone’s idea of a good time, but for some it is.

Some say the most expensive bike is the one that is free. While my goal is to spend as little as possible and turn this into a winter bike, the reassembly means a few things to me. First, another learning experience to improve my mechanical skills and understanding of how these old BMWs work. Next is to do my part and save an Oilhead. While these bikes are not looked at as fondly as other years, there is something still charming about them. It might be the ugly duckling appearance or the fact that they are hated on that has subliminally drawn me to them. While the verdict is still out on why, the last reason is what hit home this weekend, friends and community. I knew I would be pushing my boundaries a bit to try and recruit my moto-friends to my house during the holiday months to help work on the bike but looked forward to the time spent together.

Over the years my passions and hobbies have allowed me to build and have amazing relationships with some very special people. The motorcycle community might be the very best example of that. Not only have they ended up being some of my longest running friends, they are typically the first to drop what they are doing to help you get your machine in order. One of the best parts for me is knowing we all have different skill sets and the chance to learn from and help others when you can is incredibly fulfilling.

This past Thanksgiving weekend was the first day I dove into working on the R1100RT. Although we didn’t get as much done as I had anticipated, progress was made and lessons learned. With two friends by my side, with a 30 year knowledge gap between some of us, we all shared what we knew, taught each other something while simultaneously learning at the same time. This is the type of friendsgiving that I want to replicate. When a group meets over a common passion and the moments together become the reward, what else could we possibly need?

Although the project bike still has a ways to go and will most likely need some cash pulled from my wallet, I’m ok with this. I originally wanted to put it back together as quickly as possible, but as I learned this weekend, taking it slowly will allow me to learn more and spend time learning from others. Watching someone work on a motorcycle could be boring to some, but for me seeing how the wheels turn inside someone’s head and watching the methodical nature unfold only to be reasoned with by another is incredibly fulfilling.

If you find yourself feeling lonely, go buy a bike, but don’t stop there. Find your two wheel community and lean in, I’ll bet their arms will be as open as yours if you allow it. Here is to motorcycles as a motivation, friendships that endure, and the combination of both.

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In a world filled with needless killing, global disruption, greedy billionaires, and micro-influencers spewing hate-filled comments without knowledge or qualifications, the only thing that makes sense anymore is to play more Grateful Dead and drown out the noise.

Whether you’re in the United States, the Middle East, or Eastern Europe, selfish and corrupt leaders are taking control of land and people—lining their pockets and chasing legacies without ever asking if they’re worth being proud of. Growing up, right and wrong were black and white, but now it seems the world lives in the greyest of eras.

When the world news hurts your mind and soul, turn it off and play more Dead.

The Western world defines success through careers and how much money we can stack. The capitalistic indoctrination of our children starts in the womb and builds through a 24-hour cycle of ads targeting the softest parts of their brains and souls. Do you want to feel happy and be successful? Earn, earn, earn. Buy, buy, buy!

A child’s life could be much simpler if we turned off the screens and played them more Dead.

The decline of the nuclear family has been steady for the last fifty years, and the extended family is almost non-existent in the American upbringing. Fifty-hour work weeks, constant running around, and social media fatigue have all chipped away at the village that once raised our children. Our bubbles have grown smaller and lonelier, and all we have to show for it is our rotting mental health.

Imagine a world where people rallied behind music, art, family, and eternal love. Why can’t we just play more Dead?!

The search for our “forever person” has become a never-ending chase divided by class, beauty, politics, and money—only for us to realize that all of it is bullshit. We lose the ones we could have connected with forever, but only realize it after it’s too late. Love is real, but mostly isolated and relegated to the milder moments of our lives.

Beauty goes deeper than skin; it lives in our humor, integrity, and intellect. Love is in all of us—we just have to stop letting social media, the 24-hour news cycle, and political talking points drive us apart. Just play more Dead, and dance the blues away.

Our muses come in every shape and size. They change when we need them to, but they’re always there if we listen. You can find me buried in the words flooding from my psyche, securely planted on two wheels, Always riding—Often alone—and playing more Dead.

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In a world built on accumulation its no wonder loss hits us hard. Excess consistently leaves us empty and we are left to search for a remedy to the pain that is left in its wake. Not all separations and losses are created equal and even though some are decided for us, others are sought out for a myriad of reasons only we can justify. But, it’s the ones that stick in our psyche and sneak back into our thoughts at the least expected times that haunt us for years.

When my daughter was young, saying goodbye to her friend was devastating. Even at that age, she knew when her play date was starting to draw to a close. She and her friend would negotiate for just a little longer to keep the fun going to avoid the harsh feelings and sadness that saying goodbye brings. As parents, we feel that it's our job to talk to our kids and prepare them for the challenges of life, especially how to handle difficult emotions. But in reality, love and loss happen frequently, and some experiences affect us deeply and last a lifetime. I’m not sure there's any real way to prepare for these feelings.

As the Earth rotates around the Sun, life reminds us again and again of the lessons hidden in our daily choices. In some cases, we ignore our inner voice telling us what path is the right one to choose. That voice is trying to prevent us from the future pain we may cause ourselves. If you’re like me, you mute that voice when the current feelings bring enough joy to outweigh the predicted future hurt. Life is just a series of calculated decisions; it's here we find the joy and sadness that we feel regularly, although the intensity of our feelings changes, the game stays the same. It’s with this knowledge that we still choose to follow our hearts over our intellect, time and time again. It’s almost as if every day we are gambling our lives away, hoping that the house gives us a taste of winning every now and then. When we do get that taste, it’s almost as if it's heaven-sent.

Riding motorcycles allows time to reflect on a life lived. Some days, I am able to cherish all that I have, while others, I am left with the antipathy of what I have lost. Irrespective of what has passed, I play the internal blame game and try to negotiate with myself that if the circumstances had played out another way, I wouldn't be where I am. No matter the time spent working through these thoughts, the answers may never be found. Some say that peace comes from acceptance, although I like the sound of that, it can only be successfully achieved sometimes, and it's not linear.

Acceptance may be the goal, but the truth is, loss never really leaves, it just changes shape. As much as I love reveling in the good times, I'd be lying if I didn't admit the distant sadness of loss always seems to draw me back in. I ask myself, do I go looking for it, or are the people and things from my past reaching through time and space, trying to communicate with me still? While I may spend the rest of my life working through some of the larger goodbyes, I often remind myself of the old adage, "If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it's yours. If not, it was never meant to be." Still, I find myself wrestling with the hardest truth of all, accepting the choices that shaped me, both the ones I made and the ones I never had the chance to make.

In a life spent searching for happiness, acceptance, and love, all while blazing a path that would uniquely be mine, I found myself living life in a cycle. The sun shines bright and brings warmth while the storms bring rain and darkness. Throughout this repetition, I continue to get up and ride through the seasons and find shelter when needed. Over the years, I have met many people and ridden a lot of miles, but I have only truly loved a few. A few have stuck around and provided refuge to a weary rider when it was so desperately needed, and others turned their back and rode off as quickly as they appeared.

Maybe goodbyes aren’t meant to be conquered but carried, each one stitched into the fabric of who we are. They shape the way we love, the way we hope, and even the way we ride through life. Every ride ends, seasons change, but the road always stretches on ahead. Goodbyes may haunt me, but they also remind me that the journey isn’t finished.

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First Impressions: A Standout in Green and Gold
The Aurelius Metallic Green R1300GS is one of the nicest colors and bikes in BMW’s modern lineup. The gold accents contrasted against the deep green and black complement each other perfectly. The Option 719 features have always been one of the more tasteful upgrades you can do from the factory, and they really shine on this model. Another unique feature is the optional Automated Shift Assistant (ASA), which is undoubtedly a polarizing topic in the motorcycle community.

Learning to Let Go of the Clutch
After first throwing a leg over the GS and getting a few miles under my belt, I thought I’d write about my opinions on shifting without a clutch… or not at all. It didn’t take long to realize the real story wasn’t about the clutch—it was about the bike itself. Over the years, I’ve owned multiple GSs, but all were Adventure models. I’d carefully kit each one out to meet my travel needs and the comfort I sought when logging long days in the saddle. I’d only ridden the standard GS model a handful of times before, and most of those were on a good friend’s tuned and modified bike, one that had become its own kind of beast.

The Ride That Changed My Mind
As I sat on the 1300, I was looking forward to learning a new way to shift and testing out the new displacement, while maybe even debunking the myths I’d quietly built up about this latest iteration of the beloved line. Any doubts I had quickly disappeared in my rear-view mirror. Shifting without a clutch lever felt strange at first but became second nature in no time. Once you’re alone on the back roads chasing twisties, quick shifting between gears becomes so natural that your focus shifts to your lines and what lies beyond the next corner.

What Sets the 1300 Apart
So what made this GS different from the others? After all, it’s still a mile-muncher, as nimble as ever, and can easily make you feel like a better rider than you probably are. For starters, it was the riding triangle and the seating position. It felt like it was custom made for my 6’ frame. I needed almost no adjustments to feel confident leaning into corners, accelerating past distractions, or navigating city traffic. I kept asking myself: How did these German engineers so masterfully create a bike that handles like a sport bike but offers the comfort of a touring machine? The easy answer is to rattle off the stats—1300ccs, 145 HP, and 110 lb-ft of torque—all tucked behind the now world-famous Telelever suspension that sets BMW apart.

Where Soul Meets Engineering
I can appreciate and hold reverence for the classical mode so effortlessly outlined by Robert Pirsig, but it’s the romantic mode that keeps luring me toward new machines. That feeling tends to reveal itself in the throttle—the way the boxer motor delivers power so effortlessly, time and time again. BMW has so many amazing machines in its lineup, and while this might be an unpopular opinion with some, the soul of the brand still lives in the flat twin.

The GS Evolution Continues
The GS has evolved the way lasting relationships do—through trial, error, and compromise. The years have been kind to it, and you can see that clearly in the R1300GS and the multiple personalities it so effortlessly takes on. Leave the side cases off and ride it like a sport bike. You’ll turn heads as the green and gold glisten under the summer sun. Or pack it out and ride around the world. No matter the terrain, you’ll still be turning heads.

Final Thoughts: Adapt and Ride On
One thing’s for sure: the new 1300GS will not disappoint. More importantly, it will adapt with you when you let go and become one with it. Change is inevitable, but it can bring new, exciting things. Whether you try the new ASA model or keep it OG with a clutch lever—go ride an R1300GS, and thank me later.

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As an artist, I tend to look for meaning in everything. In that pursuit, I have found endless inspiration; other times, I have forced significance where it didn’t belong. There is a careful balance of awareness and mindfulness that we as artists dance between. Although Mindfulness is quite the buzzword these days, let's be honest, intentional awareness can have a dark side, too.

One of the great things about riding motorcycles long-distance is the time we have to reflect. Long rides take us through a rollercoaster of thoughts—inner conversations we often forget, though sometimes a theme sticks and stays. It was on a recent trip to the Gaspé Peninsula in the northeastern section of Quebec that I had a meaningful takeaway.

Over the last few years, my life has experienced an abnormal uptick in chaos. Some called it a midlife crisis, but I now prefer to call it my midlife reassessment. During that time, a series of events had changed what I wanted out of life, and I was given the insight and ability to prioritize what served me and was truly meaningful. Over that period, I lost friends, mentors, and walked away from a safe job and career that I spent years mastering and becoming an expert in.

Deciding what you want and creating a plan to get it is easy, but it's in the execution and blind faith in oneself that takes real courage. Some days I find myself feeling nostalgic and missing people and things in my past. It’s my self-doubt that has me questioning if I made the right decision to pursue my passion for all things two wheels. It’s with the clearest of minds that I know I did the right thing. Whether it’s the outpouring support I have received from the motorcycle community or the love and encouragement from my spiritual soulmates I have met over the years, I continue to find solace in my decisions.

It was while riding through the northwoods and along the coastal roads of Quebec that the lesson truly landed. Out there, discovering new roads and leaning into new blind corners, I am reminded that I have one choice if I want to make it to the other side safely, and that is to have faith in my abilities. We spend a lifetime honing and developing who we are and what we’ll become (whether we are mindful or aware of it). One thing is for sure: trusting oneself and following through with our choices is the only answer. It may be scary. It may require some blind faith. But ultimately, we know we cannot look backwards. Moving forward is the only way.

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Passion and obsession are oftentimes confused. While one can carry a positive connotation, the other can feel dangerous and overbearing. As the years pass by, our interests and activities often change, while our passions and obsessions with said activities vary based on connection. Throughout my waking life, I’ve thrown myself into many activities and hobbies. Some stuck around longer than others, while some still lay dormant, waiting for the next awakening.

Intent is the difference maker. It’s how I turned a slow-growing passion and hobby into a career, and was able to cut myself free from toxic environments that consumed many of my peers. Motorcycles have always been a part of my life, whether it was riding with my father or grandfather as a child, going to rallies in my 20s, or planning for the day I would finally own one. The seed was planted at a young age, and it took many years to water, grow, and finally flower. Like Agave, Bamboo, or the rare Corpse Flower, the process wasn’t quick. But what’s emerged is a deep-rooted muse that feeds me in more ways than I can count.

No matter the weather, I ride. The serenity I find in motion is surreal and always evolving. When the weight of the world presses in and a mental storm brews, the cool air and winding back roads offer clarity. They lead me to realizations I couldn’t reach any other way. It's the journey, no matter the length. It's the strangers I meet, if only once. It’s the turning of the wheel, forward through time, toward new connections and unexpected lessons.

Motorcycles are objects that vary in shape and size, but for me, they are vessels for love. As this obsession continues to grow and evolve, I am reminded of those from the past and to enjoy every moment as it happens. The reality of this existence may not be in this form forever, but the happiness it brings will always be around and morphing into something new and inspiring.

Thanks for being part of this trip with me. Here’s to many more rides, and meaningful conversations with people I have yet to meet.

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The Ride That Sparked Reflection

Recently, I had the opportunity to log miles on a new BMW S1000XR. Over the course of a few days, I experienced the exhilarating and advanced engineering feet that BMW has been known for. Not only was this bike loaded with features and tasteful upgrades, but it kept true to the brand without losing the soul that connects it with so many of its riders. This is not so much a review as documentation of the thoughts it evoked within me.

Riding motorcycles has always checked a few boxes for me. Each ride is different and oftentimes is aimed to scratch an itch. Whether it be to blow off steam after a long challenging work week, an affordable way to travel, or simply—a more pure immersive way to explore and connect with nature and the communities we have built. Every moment spent behind the bars brings a flood of thoughts and emotions, giving me the space to unpack them and, hopefully, learn something new about myself or the world.

Time, Towns, and Inspiration

Living in the northeast of the United States, I am blessed with some amazing riding locations and some of the most historic locations in the country. It's the architecture of each small town that I ride through that I find artistic inspiration. Nothing quite compares to stumbling upon a quaint new main street after carving through the mountains and valleys. Some townships have found ways to be reborn after the manufacturing that they were built on had left many years ago, while others continue to struggle and their historic buildings fall into decay.

Whenever I arrive in one of these places, I pull off the main street in search of the stories of the past, the memories left behind. The stories that are told, come to me in the ironwork of old fire escapes hanging on the side of buildings. I hear them in the brickwork and ornate fixtures that are adorned proudly on old structures. There was a time when a designer and tradesmen were able to leave their mark ever so subtly to be appreciated by future generations. It’s this that not only draws my eyes but also my soul. I’m inspired to shoot photos and do my best to share the feelings that each line on a building fills me with.

Great design is timeless and I often feel the same sense of inspiration on new structures as well, but they tend to be built for more grandiose reasons and not for the simpler utilitarian purposes that it seemed we focused on in the past. As humanity evolves, so does our design and the functionality needed from it. In the past, we needed our objects to be able to do multiple things out of scarcity of raw materials and necessity. Now as the modern world is so interconnected, we have the opportunity to refine our tools for greater specificity. It’s this privilege that makes possible the abundance or luxury we’ve grown accustomed to, depending on your perspective.

Machines, Memory, and the Present

One thing is for sure: as I ride through some of my favorite cities, they all have one thing in common. It’s the tasteful blend of old and new. I'm fully aware this is as subjective as my taste in motorcycles. Some will argue that new buildings and businesses do not have the same soul or longevity as those of the past, while others have disdain for the primitive design and faulty aspects of the past. Whether you're a nostalgist or a realist, the common ground can be found in the juxtaposition of the two. It’s only in the comparison that either side has any ground to stand on.

As I found myself riding this brand-new machine, I could not help but fall for the tasteful touch points that were so carefully crafted to lure me, the rider, in. It might have been the feel of the upgraded features of the M package that was tastefully peppered around the machine, or maybe it was the way the seat cradled me so carefully—so as I leaned effortlessly into each sweeping turn, I felt like a baby swaddled in the arms of its mother. One thing was for sure: the 170 hp, 999cc, inline-four machine was lightweight, extremely nimble, and fast!

I’ve been known to be a sentimentalist and get lost in the longing for yesteryear far too many times. Just like the towns I discover in my riding explorations, I too find myself holding on to the utilitarian machines of the past and making claims that the older bikes will stand the test of time and the new ones will fall victim to the same technology that makes them so exhilarating.

Having the opportunity to own multiple bikes—more notably BMWs from different generations—I am fortunate enough to have a perspective and draw from direct comparisons back to back. The aging rider in me will always long for the simplicity and visceral feeling I get from riding an old airhead. The connectivity I have with those machines is closer and heartfelt in a very deliberate way. With that said, I can easily take my grandpa hat off and enjoy new things and make space for them in my life.

You see, 150 miles on the S1000XR may not have been enough time to connect emotionally with the bike in the way I have with others in my life, but it was enough time to learn something about myself and tell a story. The lesson learned was that although the age, design, and technology of the motorcycles and things in our life may vary, we must not look for what it doesn’t have but what it does—and how we can find joy in the present.

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Growing up, I loved hearing stories—whether it was the tall tales my grandfather would fill my ears with any chance he got or the ones that played out on the TV screen. My imagination would run wild, playing out different scenarios in my head or recreating events while off exploring the woods. It wasn’t until later in life, when I started looking back to pinpoint when the storytelling bug bit me, that I realized it had always been a part of me. As early as grade school, I wrote short stories, mostly for myself, but occasionally, I’d share them with others.

As I grew and the inevitable shift in hormones came and so did the unbalancing of chemicals in my head, as a result my storytelling shifted to notebooks full of poems and songs. By the time high school came and went, my songwriting had evolved—just like the bands I played with—from simple verse-chorus-verse structures to more long-form spoken word. It was during this time that my writing style and message started to take shape. Eventually, performing and making music took a backseat as my career became a bigger focus of my time, but my need for creative expression never faded.

I was fortunate enough to become an expert in my field, and along the way, I had the opportunity to write a weekly newsletter for my business. It reached everyone from the C-suite to operations, and it was here that I began blending reflection with action, using the platform to discuss more than just the industry at hand. The positive feedback I received finally gave me the confidence to leap forward to where I am today.

After filling Moleskines, digital notepads, and anything else I could scribble ideas onto, I knew I needed to find a permanent home for my words. Thankfully, a colleague introduced me to Substack, and I eagerly jumped in headfirst. Like many of us, I started humbly—writing a blog for no one. Slowly, it began to coincide with the birth of Moto Reveler, and the rest is history.

My love of motorcycles and riding not only soothes my soul but also provides the space to reflect and develop many of the ideas I write about. It has become one of the most important ways for me to process stress, grief, and joy in this chaotic world we find ourselves in. Channeling my thoughts on aging, political regression and its repercussions, and the ever-present existential dread of late-stage capitalism into short essays has become essential to my existence.

The fact that I’ve found a small group of like-minded people who relate to my words and find value in them is incredibly humbling. Whether you're here for the motorcycles, the photos, or the writing—thank you. The support from everyone who took a chance on signing up for my newsletter or clicking “follow” on social media has meant more than you know.

With the launch of Moto Reveler in 2023, the evolution of the brand and blog was inevitable, though I wasn’t entirely sure where it would lead. Over time, it only felt right to take my words and photos off the screen and onto paper. Collecting my best and favorite posts from Substack and assembling them into a coffee table book has been a dream turned reality.

So, with the greatest pleasure, I’m thrilled to announce that on May 1st, I will be releasing my first book—Throttle & Thoughts, Vol. 1. This is your chance to own a hardcover copy of my work and help support Moto Reveler on its journey.

This novel-sized (5 x 8 in / 127 x 203 mm) perfect-bound back features a matte cover and 126 pages of 80lb coated white paper, printed in photo-quality color. Free standard shipping (normally 10 working days) included. To purchase now please use these links and choose between hard or soft cover.

Hard Cover

Soft Cover

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