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 grind, the training, the adrenaline—every second of every day was about getting faster, sharper, stronger. I was consumed by the game, by the roar of the crowd, the smell of fuel and dirt, the constant chase for the next win. Romance? It wasn’t on my radar.
But she—she walked into my life like a different kind of storm. Not loud, not wild, just… steady. Real. She didn’t care about trophies or sponsors. She looked past the fame, the broken bones, the headlines. Somehow, she saw the kid behind the goggles—the one who still doubted himself sometimes, who pushed too hard to prove he was enough. And that messed with me in the best way.
At first, I tried to keep her at a distance. I told myself I didn’t have the time, didn’t have the space. But she had this quiet persistence, this light that refused to dim no matter how much chaos surrounded me. She taught me that life doesn’t always have to be lived at full throttle. That sometimes, the most powerful moments aren’t at the finish line—they’re in the quiet, in the laughter between races, in the way she made everything else fade when she smiled.
Now, when I look back, I realize she changed the way I ride, the way I live. She reminded me that winning means nothing if you lose yourself along the way. She didn’t just walk into my life—she anchored it. And for a guy who’s spent his life chasing speed, finding that kind of stillness… that’s the real victory.
