I’ve always loved motorcycles.

When I was little, I had this toy three-wheeler, a Weebok, I think, that I’d ride around like I was on a mission. I was fearless, but only if I was following my brother. That was our rhythm: he’d lead, and I’d chase adventure right behind him.

By the time I was eight or nine, I was already talking about motorcycles out loud, not just dreaming them in my head. Around 12, a family friend took me on a real ride. Helmet, wind, highway—it was freedom. He even gave me a rim and a helmet once and said I could start building my own bike someday. And that stuck with me.

When I turned 16, my grandparents brought me to a Harley-Davidson store just so I could sit on a real bike. It was a birthday gift that cost nothing but meant everything. I remember running my fingers over the metal and imagining the day I’d own one myself.

In my early twenties, I rode on the back of a bike with a friend. We hit the highway, and the wind felt electric on my skin. I knew in that moment that motorcycles weren’t just a cool idea—they were part of me.

But for some reason, I didn’t pursue it. I lit up every time I heard one on the road. I’d smile, wave, throw the two wheels down gesture like I was part of the club—even though I wasn’t quite there yet. My heart would leap with excitement every time. It always had.

Then, last year, I got hit by a car. That’s a story for another time, but it shook me awake. I realized there were dreams I was sitting on, letting time pass by, telling myself “someday.” And motorcycles? That was one of the biggest ones.

So this year, I signed up for my motorcycle permit and the Basic Rider Course. And I was doing great. Two full days of learning, focusing, getting better each hour. It was raining that morning but had dried up and everything was going well. Until the final skills test.

It happened so fast.

I was at the third part of five sections—the emergency stop. I was last in line, so everyone was watching me go. I got up to speed (they had clocked me around 25 MPH), but when I went to brake, I missed the back brake. My rear tire slipped out, and I dumped the bike. It threw me hard onto the ground. It was so fast. One moment I was moving, and the next I was on the pavement.

I had the mental capacity to know I needed to turn the bike off, but when I reached for the engine cut-off switch, I realized I couldn’t get there. I was crawling toward it, but it was out of reach. One of the rider coaches ran over and hit it for me, and that moment of truth landed in my gut: I had been thrown far. Farther than I realized.

I started crying and got up. It wasn’t just pain—it was surprise, fear, and embarrassment all mixed up. The coach asked if I was okay. I said, “Emotionally? No.” Then he asked about physical pain, and I told him my wrist hurt a little.

He asked if I wanted to get back on the bike, but I was too overwhelmed. I said I didn’t think I should. He nodded and said,

“Well, you've just failed the test.”

I was in shock. It was the first time anyone had dropped a bike in the whole two-day course. And for this particular skill test, they’d said you got two tries. I thought maybe I’d get another go. But he said no. I had failed.

He told me I could either finish the final two skills sections, even though my points wouldn’t count and then come back another time to retake the test or I could retake the entire course. I was stunned. But I said okay, I’d finish it. I needed to.

I went to walk it off and get some water in the break area. And then something happened that I’ll never forget: the whole class clapped. They were cheering me on because I was okay. They were relieved I was okay. And while it felt embarrassing, it also meant I wasn’t alone.

I went to the rest area, sat down, and texted my husband and my sister-in-law. Told them I’d failed. Told them I wasn’t okay, but also, I was okay. It was just a lot.

And then I got back on the bike.

Everyone was encouraging. We all finished the test. When the coach gave the results, he looked at me and said, “If you hadn’t dropped the bike, you would have passed.” It stung, but it also lifted me. I could do this. Just you know - use both breaks next time...

I made arrangements with one of the rider coaches to come back the next day or the day after to take a retest. Got to my car and cried most the way home.

I went to the ER that night just to be sure nothing was broken.

I thought it was just my wrist, but on the drive home, my entire right side started hurting. They checked me out and after a series of x-rays confirmed that my right wrist, right elbow, and right shoulder were all injured.  Nothing broken - all muscular. They gave me a sling, some ice packs, and Tylenol, and sent me home. 

The next day I also discovered a deep bruise on my left ankle. Thankfully, nothing was hurt worse. I rested and decided to focus on some art therapy. I needed to process what had just happened, not only in my body but in my spirit. I thought about the event. I thought about this dream I've held for so long. I seriously contemplated if I wanted to keep pursuing this or not. I thought about having to go back and I put it all on the canvas.

I painted something that surprised even me. An abstract mix of teal, yellow, red, and grey. Each color meant something:

• Grey represents the gravel.
• Teal represents the bike.
• Yellow, represents the sticker on the tank.
• Red, represents the engine cut-off switch.

I blew the paint out in a circular motion—to represent the speed and the fall. And the lacing pattern that formed? That was all the emotion. The fragments. The way this experience cracked me open, but in a way that let light pour in.

Two days after dropping the bike I got back on.

I retook the test, and I passed! 

Here's What I Learned

There’s something about hitting the ground—literally—that shakes you awake.

One big thing I took away from that day is that I will never ride without full armored gear. Not just a helmet and gloves, but the jacket, the pants, the boots—everything. I was wearing some protection, but even with that, I walked away with multiple injuries. If I hadn’t been wearing what I had on, I know it would have been so much worse. The bruises, the impact—it was a loud reminder that riding is incredible, but it also comes with very real risks.

I also learned that high-visibility gear matters. Even if it’s not the most fashionable choice, being seen can be the difference between being safe and being hit. Style doesn’t matter when you’re on the ground wishing someone had noticed you a second sooner.

I learned how fast things can go wrong. One missed movement, one hesitation, and you’re on the ground.

But just as quickly, you can decide to get back up. To walk off the embarrassment. To regroup. To try again.

And maybe most importantly, I learned that pursuing a dream—especially one that’s lived inside you for so long—is worth the fear, the setbacks, and even the bruises. Sometimes dreams have to go through the fire (or the gravel) before they really start to take shape.

This isn’t just about motorcycles.

It’s about what happens when we fall while chasing our dreams and how we get back up. It's about listening to that spark that’s been in you since childhood. The one that lights up every time a bike zooms past and you instinctively throw the two wheels down.

My heart has longed for this for a long time. And now, I’m answering it with a renewed sense of respect for the ride and for the rider.

P.S. What dreams have you been putting off that you need to dust off, pick back up, and finally pursue?

P.S.S. Apparently, there’s an unreleased video of the fall somewhere — but I’m not ready to watch it yet. I lived it. That’s enough for now.