Riding the Edge

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There’s this place I find when I ride—a space right on the edge between control and chaos. I'm not just commanding the bike; I'm dancing with it. I feel the balance, the tension, the precise harmony between flow and risk.

My mind is aware of the dangers. It knows there might be a patch of gravel in the curve up ahead. It knows an animal could jump out in front of me. It knows other road-users can be reckless, unpredictable. But the mind isn’t leading in these moments. It steps back, and something deeper steps forward. My body listens— to the steady vibration of the motor, to the wind whistling through my helmet and thumping against my chest, to the magnetic pull of the road.

It’s not just a ride.

It’s presence.

It’s trust.

It’s me, meeting the moment exactly as I am—and letting that be enough.

In this space the road becomes a mirror.

The curve, a lesson.

The throttle, an invitation to trust.

This is more than movement—it’s practice.

Practice in surrendering without losing my power. In holding presence when the future isn’t clear. In knowing when to lean in and when to ease off.

It teaches me how to live. Because just like on the bike, this life—this path I’m walking—requires the same kind of balance.

I’m not here to control it all, but I’m not here to be swept away either.

I’m here to ride it.

To feel the edge.

To hold both grace and grit.

And to remember that flow doesn’t come from forcing—it comes from trust.