I miss the old me who didn’t give a fuck about anything and had fun any chance I got. Perhaps, it is time to rehearse that for the meetup?
Meadow
Present day
Ilive for the applause.
Some would say that but it is not the truth.
I live with ghosts and the only way to silence them is with the beast underneath my clutches. The loud rev that rings in my ears for days, and the open road to free me from the motherfucking devil that resides in my head and pushes boundaries.
I’m a risk taker.
I used to be a cocky prick at a certain point in my life when fame started to affect my attitude but mybest friendsimmediately put me back in line, and then they left the face of the earth.
The flashy signs of Las Vegas passing me by but it is not my destination. I pass through the vibrant city, and the lively energy on my way.
Home sweet home, Nevada.
I’m heading to a remote location where anyone can get some peace—it’s more like a stop in the middle of the road except it has everything a person can imagine—we call itDesert Peak.
For decades it’s been there for anyone who needs good company and motorcycle action although cars are allowed too. It started small but grew into something so meaningful over the years for a lot of people. Freedom and racing are part of the deal if you won’t harm anyone and do it for fun. We’re family here, so when you mess with one of us, you mess with all of us. At least, it used to be with my best friends. My crew. It’s not the same without them.
The next traffic light hits the green and my motorcycle roars forward, following the familiar road back home.
I twist the throttle harder under my tenacious grip.
I lost count of the number of times I almost crashed my bike—a whole motherfucking lot if I have to guess.
That’s the price of doing something I love that is also dangerous, yet the risk is worth it every day when I’m on the tracks, stepping into the shoes of a pro motorcycle racer.
I smile inside my helmet and the pain doesn’t hurt so much when I ride.
The world championship season already started but I needed a minute to breathe and take a break from it all. It still weighs down on my shoulders every day. The images. The memories. The voices. They are all in my head all the time. Haunting me.
I was born in the wrong place at the right time because how else can I explain how lucky I am to have my family?
My parents were always transparent with me about the fact I was adopted. There wasn’t a shard of information aboutwho my biological parents were.
The only information I have is written on my sharp features, the manly shape of my face, and my DNA.Native American. Italian. Korean.Those are just words for me. Do they make a difference? It doesn’t mean much to me because I grew up in a different culture, surrounded by multiple languages.
And am I a part of these communities if I wasn’t raised surrounded by them?
Technically… yes, it’s part of my identity.
In reality… I don’t know. For them, I’m a stranger.
I know that many adopted kids want to know about their parents and look for them when they grow up, but truthfully, I never wondered. My parents are my parents, and I know that the people who brought me into this world are out there whether they are alive or not, I’m just at peace where I am now.
The ones who touched my heart and stuck around—those people are my family.
I exhale a breath of satisfaction, catching speed as I pull in the clutch and shift gears, leaving dust behind me on the vacant desert road. At over a hundred mph everything blurs except the mile ahead.
One mile at a time.
I sigh in happiness.
Chemical by Post Malone blasts in my helmet as I leave another trail of dust behind me.
