So the other day, I was out on the Hayabusa, which, for those of you unfamiliar with this beast, is not just a motorcycle—it’s an adrenaline injection on wheels. The second-generation Hayabusa has a throttle so touchy it feels like it’s whispering, “Just try me,” every time you even think about accelerating, and trust me, there’s no shortage of temptation when you’re riding her. I was carving through the Rocky Mountains—dramatic cliffs, swooping curves, the kind of scenery that makes you think, “Ah yes, I am indeed the main character.” And then, out of nowhere, the storm decided to make its grand entrance.

Now, if I knew a storm was coming, if the warnings had been blaring the previous night, and the news was full of dire predictions about gale-force winds and torrential rain I wouldn’t have gone out. Did I think to check the weather again before hopping on the Hayabusa and heading for higher altitudes after the storms the night before? Of course not. I thought, “How bad could it really be?” Well, let me tell you—bad. No, scratch that. Catastrophic. Riding a motorcycle in a storm in the Rocky Mountains isn’t just bad; it’s like willingly signing up for a live-action survival simulation where the “hard mode” is permanently engaged. You know the post I made about not being sure if I was going to get online the next day? That delightful storm. I did make it home before the warning tone’s sounded on my phone but not by much.

It all started innocently enough. The sky was cloudy but not threatening, the roads were gorgeous and the heat, well not such a big factor at 100km/hr or well maybe more, and my spirits were high. And then came the rain—the kind of rain that doesn’t just fall; it attacks. At first, it was drizzle, polite and almost charming, like nature’s way of saying, “Hey, just a heads-up.” Moments later, it transformed into a downpour, complete with winds that felt like they were auditioning for a spot in the next disaster movie. My helmet visor, bless its heart, tried to shield me, but all it accomplished was smearing my view into a Picasso-like abstraction of trees, roads, and cliffs. Every three seconds, I found myself wondering if I should open up the throttle and get ahead of the storm a bit and yet wondering, “Is that a mountain? Or is that just my impending doom?” well it made me think it wasn’t such a great idea. In some ways I wish I had, yet I check the satellite images and the radar to make sure there isn’t going to be anything to big when I am going to ride in the mountains. To think I was at the starting edge of this storm, or was it a side edge, either way it was part of that storm but not as bad as it was going to get.

Regarding my helmet, I must note its unfortunate damage. It’s rare to form an emotional connection with a piece of safety equipment, but this helmet held deep sentimental value. It was a precious gift from a dear friend who passed away ten months ago, making it irreplaceable and dear to my heart despite its age, it was the last season I could wear it before the expiry of the helmet hit. The helmet had a certain elegance and charm, which meant a lot to me given that I don’t usually exude an air of coolness or sophistication. Let’s face it I don’t exactly have men showing interest in me very often, though part of that might be because I got pretty isolated from my circles besides very few people and well we all know how that stuff goes when your with a narcissist and one who could hide it very well considering my mother was one that is a different story though. Although I have another white helmet adorned with overly feminine decals, it simply doesn’t hold the same profound meaning to me and is mainly used for its Bluetooth capabilities on the highway for long trips.

Sadly, the recent storm showed no regard for my sentiments or preferences for appearance. The storm’s intensity hurled gravel and rocks mercilessly. To make matters worse, a passing motorist dislodged a rock that struck my beloved helmet harder than I could have ever predicted. I am not sure my windshield on the car would have done much better maybe worse. My heart aches at the sight of it now, damaged and marred by forces beyond my control. It is no longer wearable, and I will be lucky if I can make it look like it had. I wish I had stopped wearing it when my friend passed but he was the one who taught me to ride and sparked my love for the Hayabusa.

And then there were the winds. You know it’s bad when you don’t even bother checking the wind speeds afterward because, honestly, the numbers wouldn’t add much to the story. Giant trees were bending like yoga instructors demonstrating impossible poses, and the sheer force of the gusts made me feel like I was a paper kite trying desperately not to take flight. Even if I’d been in my car—a solid, enclosed vehicle—I’m pretty sure I would’ve had issues. But no, I was on two wheels, exposed to the elements like some kind of daredevil—or perhaps just an idiot who didn’t check the weather app as often as I should have. Let’s go with daredevil; it sounds less tragic.

And here’s the real kicker: I live in tornado country. That’s right, the good old tornado belt, where storms can escalate from “a bit windy” to “what in the actual hell is happening” in the blink of an eye. Tornados, as it turns out, don’t play nice. And when you’re on a mountain road, the “low ground” you’re supposed to seek during a tornado isn’t exactly accessible. Typically, “low ground” comes with a very sharp drop, which isn’t ideal if you value things like, you know, survival. So there I was, wet, windblown, and wondering what the protocol for “mountain tornado while on motorcycle” even was. Spoiler alert: there isn’t one. You’re on your own, ma’am.

Now, my family has drilled preparedness into me since I was about eight years old. “Dress for the fall, not the ride,” they’d say, a mantra that echoes in my mind every time I gear up. Normally, I’m pretty good about following this advice. Leather jackets with armor, padded gloves, boots—my usual outfit screams “caution” more than “style.” But on this particular day, the temperatures were climbing, and I thought, “Why not dress for the ride instead?” Bad decision that I was glad I did not make. Leather may not be summer chic, but it is survival chic, and without it, I might not be here to tell this story. So, shoutout to my family for their relentless nagging. It paid off, sort of.

By the time I finally made it home, I was drenched, shivering, and thoroughly traumatized. My Hayabusa, bless its mechanical soul, looked as rough as I felt. Mud splattered across its sleek curves, scratches on places that shouldn’t have scratches—it was a mess and needs some repairs. But hey, we survived, didn’t we? And isn’t survival the ultimate goal? Sure, I’ll have to spend a small fortune on repairs, and yes, my pride is now sporting a few dents, but at least I didn’t end up as the subject of a cautionary tale on the evening news. That’s gotta count for something. Hell I have responded as a front line responder to those enough times to know where this could have been. Honestly my co-workers think I am a tad nuts to ride given my background even if I am medically retired. Hell most think I shouldn’t ride with my injuries. Uhh hello, I hurt less riding my Hayabusa or any bike like it, forget the cruisers I can’t sit on them long even stationary without having issues with pain causing major havoc, even my little car is less comfortable… anyone know how I could ride safely in a Canadian winter?

You’d think the story would end there, but no. Because I am nothing if not a glutton for punishment. The very next day, I decided to do some research on how to handle situations like this in the future, it’s why I was so quiet yesterday. You know, because apparently, reliving my trauma is a hobby now. Here’s what I found: if you’re caught in a storm on a motorcycle, the first piece of advice is to find shelter. Great advice, except shelter isn’t exactly abundant on mountain roads. The second suggestion? Avoid low ground if there’s a risk of flooding. Fabulous. So basically, just teleport to safety. Got it.

So, what’s the moral of this story? Is it to always check the weather before heading out? Maybe. Is it to invest in better gear? Probably. Though I don’t tend to cut corners here either. It also isn’t like I had not checked the weather before going, but maybe I should have looked more often knowing the storm from the night before and the time of year. Let’s not forget it is wildfire season so there is that risk to in storms if lightning strikes. Or is it simply to accept that sometimes, no matter how prepared you think you are, life has a way of throwing a curveball—or, in this case, a gale-force wind? I’ll leave that for you to decide. All I know is, I’ll be sticking to less adventurous routes for the foreseeable future. Or at least until I forget how terrifying this was and convince myself it wasn’t that bad. Because let’s be real, that’s probably what’s going to happen. That is through after the bike is fixed and I have replaced the gear that needs to be replaced obviously. Until then I am stuck in my car, I love it, manual transmission, older car but still a sports car and still can outpace most things on the road. Hugs curves so nicely but it is not my bike!!!

In the meantime, I’ll be browsing for a new helmet, fixing up my poor Hayabusa, and maybe—just maybe—reevaluating my life choices. But hey, at least I’ve got a story to tell. And isn’t that what life’s all about? Collecting stories? Even if they involve near-death experiences, a touch of chaos, and a whole lot of rain. At least I can laugh about it now. Sort of. Though I think my co-workers (are they still co-workers when your medically retired and now just a medical advocate who make’s them laugh in the workplace and makes dr’s cringe when they realize my background?) think I am even more off of my rocker, and let’s be honest, I probably am but I am not going to sit around and play it safe and not enjoy life. Screw that, I deal with enough every day with my medical crap, so I am going to keep living, not just aiming for survival. Though on a fixed income might be a bit before I feel my bike under me again and that my friends makes me want to cry.