When I first met her, I’ll be honest—I didn’t think too much of it. She wasn’t what I expected, not at all. At that point in my life, everything revolved around motocross. The training, the races, the endless push to be faster, sharper, stronger—it was all-consuming. The Game, the Club, the road ahead, that’s where my head was. Romance? It wasn’t on my radar. But—she—she walked into my life like a different kind of challenge, one I didn’t see coming.
At first, I didn’t realize the impact she would have. She wasn’t flashy, she wasn’t trying to impress anyone, and maybe that’s exactly what struck me. She was steady, real, and carried this quiet confidence that cut through the noise I lived in. Where my world was chaos—mud, engines, cameras, pressure—she brought calm. She reminded me there was life beyond the track, beyond the titles and the expectations.
The truth is, racing can be a lonely sport. Sure, you’re surrounded by a team, by fans, by the roar of the crowd. But when the helmet’s on, when the gate drops, it’s just you. And sometimes, when it’s all over, that silence hits harder than the crash. She filled that silence. She made me laugh when I didn’t think I could, grounded me when I wanted to lose myself in the grind.
I didn’t expect love to find me in the middle of that storm. But she wasn’t asking me to give up who I was. Instead, she showed me I could be more. More than the rider. More than the guy chasing points and podiums. She saw Ken—not just Roczen. And that, I think, changed everything.
