Mojo and the Mess

There was a time when freedom meant the back of a bike.

Arms wrapped around Pete, my chin tucked against his shoulder, the sound of the engine loud enough to drown out everything else.

The wind was therapy.

The miles were medicine.

Every ride felt like a tiny rebellion — against sickness, against sadness, against time itself.

We didn’t need a destination. We never did.

Sometimes it was just to feel the sun, or chase the last bit of daylight. Sometimes we’d stop for fries and a Coke, or pull off somewhere quiet and sit in silence, just listening to the bike tick as it cooled down.

Those were the moments that made me feel most alive — when the world felt wide, and my body didn’t feel like a cage.

Now, freedom looks different.

It’s not loud or fast or full of motion anymore.

It’s quiet. Gentle. The kind that sneaks up on you in small, ordinary moments.

Freedom is Pete sitting beside me when I’m too tired to move, his hand finding mine without either of us saying a word.

It’s knowing he never makes me feel guilty for not being able to keep up.

He never makes me feel left behind.

He just slows down until I can catch up — even if catching up looks like sitting in the garage with a blanket on my lap, watching him shine chrome under a flickering light.

Sometimes, I dream of one more ride.

The wind in my face, the road stretching out forever, the way he always looked back at me at stoplights to make sure I was smiling.

I can still feel the rumble in my chest — that deep, steady heartbeat that said, you’re here, you’re alive, you’re free.

I miss her — the version of me who rode without thinking about pain or pills or time limits.

But I think she’s still here. Just rewritten.

Now freedom isn’t about the miles.

It’s about moments — the soft kind, the still kind, the ones that don’t need motion to mean something.

It’s the sound of the garage door opening.

It’s the smell of oil and the hum of a motor that hasn’t forgotten me.

It’s Pete saying, One day, babe. We’ll go again, and me believing him, even if “again” looks different than it used to.

The road gave us freedom once.

But Pete — he gave it meaning.

Because real freedom isn’t about running away.

It’s about having something that makes you want to stay.

And for me, that’s him.