There are things I no longer do. Riding motorcycles is at the top of that list. Actually, let me be honest—I never really rode them again, not after the accident. Picture this: I was in my twenties, full of bravery (or perhaps foolishness), and surrounded by friends who lived for the thrill of riding dirt bikes on California mountain trails.
They thought it would be a good idea to put me on my first solo ride on a steep trail with a winding path, and you guessed it, a sheer drop off. What could go wrong, right?
The first three riders ahead of me launched over a washed-out spot in the trail like they were auditioning for a motocross commercial. And me? I followed right behind, full of confidence. Until, well, I didn’t land on the trail. I sailed off the cliff.
