Motorcycle season was supposed to begin.
That was the plan.
Get the bikes in early. Beat the rush. Be ready when winter finally decides it’s done messing with us.
So I watched the weather apps for a month like I could outsmart Mother Nature.
Spoiler: I can’t.
Finally saw a break in the snow. Friday and Saturday. Good enough. Reserve the trailer.
Thursday rolls in with just enough snow to remind me who’s in charge. Of course it does. Same day as the truck repair appointment too, because apparently we like to keep things interesting.
Pick up the trailer — they’re running behind.
Rush.
Hook up — no time to bring it home.
Rush.
Get to the mechanic — go to unhook the trailer — hit a patch of ice and slam the tongue right onto Scott’s big toe.
That’ll wake you up.
Walk into the shop and they tell Scott the part we’ve been waiting on… was returned.
Returned.
We waited for them to get it in so we could have the appointment.
I just stood there for a second, because sometimes your brain needs a minute to catch up with the level of nonsense it’s being handed.
At that point, you either laugh or you start flipping tables. I don’t have the energy for jail, so laughing it is.
We left not really knowing where things stood. No idea if that part was getting reordered or not.
Still don’t.
Got home.
Time to load up the bikes.
In that moment, nothing else mattered.
Fired them up.
That rumble.
That vibration.
That feeling that hits somewhere deeper than thought.
Yeah.
There it is.
Freedom.
The next morning, we head out.
Ten minutes from the dealership, it starts snowing.
Not a dusting. Not a polite little flurry.
No. Full-on, “you thought you had a plan” kind of snow.
I didn’t even bother checking the weather app. It had already proven it couldn’t be trusted.
We got the bikes there anyway. Unloaded them. Left them sitting there like, “you girls behave, we’ll be back for you.”
Then came the estimate.
Dented fender from last fall — $1,300.
That one hit a little different. Not gonna lie.
While waiting, I wandered over to the boots.
Mine are at least ten years old. I’ve loved them right into the ground. Been half-looking for replacements for a couple years now, slowly lowering my standards to “fine, I guess these will do.”
Even considered men’s boots.
Which felt like giving up a little piece of my soul.
I don’t do boring well.
I want boots with personality. Boots that look like they’ve got stories in them before I even wear them.
I’m standing there holding a pair that might pass, thinking, they seriously don’t have ladies’ boots?
Nothing.
And then something in me goes, look over there.
No drama. No angels singing.
Just a nudge.
Behind a beam. Under a stairwell.
And there they are.
A handful of boxes like someone forgot they existed.
I spot an 11.
Open it.
And I just start laughing.
Because of course.
Of course the boots I’ve been looking for for two years are shoved behind a beam like they were hiding from me.
Tried them on.
Perfect fit.
Which never happens. Ever.
That moment right there?
That changed the whole day.
That little, ridiculous win.
That “are you kidding me right now?” kind of joy.
And suddenly I got it.
Why people post the small stuff.
Why someone shares boots or coffee or a sunset like it matters.
Because it does.
It’s not about the boots.
It’s about that feeling when something goes right in the middle of everything else going sideways.
And I wanted to tell everybody.
Didn’t.
But I wanted to.
Because even with snow, a $1,300 fender, and a day that tried real hard to go off the rails…
Something in me felt light.
On the drive home, that lightness made room for the stuff I’d been holding in.
The fear about the upcoming knee surgery.
The timing.
The fact that the body hadn’t really caught up from everything that’s already happened — the other surgeries, the hit in the parking lot, the lingering weakness.
And the one I didn’t want to say out loud:
What if this season gets taken too?
Because riding isn’t just a hobby.
It’s where everything lines up again.
First season we had the bikes? Barely a season. August to October.
Second season? Didn’t start until late June. Then it rained for twenty-nine weekends in a row.
Twenty-nine.
At that point, you start wondering what you did in a past life.
Then winter showed up early just to finish the job.
This year was already lining up to be another late start.
And I could feel myself tightening around it.
Trying to make it work.
Trying to line things up.
Like any of that was actually up to me.
Scott had been thinking about it too.
Quietly.
For a couple of weeks.
And somewhere between the snow, the boots, the fender, and that conversation…
He said it.
Postpone the surgery until fall.
Just like that.
And you could feel it.
The shift.
The pressure dropping out of the cab of that truck like someone cracked a valve.
Nothing dramatic.
Just… easier.
Like we could breathe again.
And it hit me how much of the stress I’d been carrying wasn’t about what was actually happening.
It was about what might happen.
All the worst-case versions I’d already lived through in my head.
And none of them were real.
What was real?
We got the bikes there.
We found the boots.
We made a decision that actually felt right.
We drove home lighter than we left.
Motorcycle season didn’t start that day.
But something better did.
Letting go of trying to force it…
…and trusting that maybe it’ll unfold just fine without me gripping the handlebars so tight.
Turns out…
Scott’s bike was done the next day.
We checked the weather. Wednesday looked clear. The rest of the week? Rain.
Perfect. Reserve the trailer.
Morning comes.
We get in the truck.
And it starts snowing.
Check the weather app.
Nothing.
Radar?
Nothing.
Still snowing.
Like winter throwing a full-on tantrum, not ready to let go.
Because of course it does.
Your turn to stir the tea