November 20, 2024
Adventure motorcycling has always been my passion. The hum of the engine beneath me, the open road stretching endlessly ahead, the smell of dust and freedom—this isn’t just something I do; it’s who I am. But lately, the road has begun to feel different. Each journey is a story, and each story is proof of resilience, curiosity, and strength. Now, though, I feel that identity slipping through my fingers like sand.
This month-long trip to Baja, Mexico, was supposed to be like all the others—thrilling, rejuvenating, transformative. Instead, it became a reckoning.
From the border crossing at Tecate, the ride to Baja Rancho la Bellota was everything I expected: remote, rugged, and beautiful. The dirt road leading to the ranch demanded skill and focus, the kind that once felt like second nature. I was thrilled when my navigation app led me to a lonely dirt road winding into the mountains. For miles, I seemed to be the only one on it.
But then the road narrowed sharply and curved hard to the right before climbing steeply uphill. Anticipating loose dirt and gravel at the curve’s center, I shifted into low gear, slowing and committing to keeping my tires on the left outer edge. All good so far. But when I accelerated uphill, the back tire caught the edge of the washout, spinning and jerking me dangerously to the right. Instincts took over. I overcorrected, leaning sharply left, and gave it more throttle. The bike straightened out, and I made it to the top. From here, I could see nothing but nature rolling out in every direction.
I cut the engine, letting the silence settle in, and stepped off to recover. My hands burned, my wrists ached, and my thumbs felt bruised from gripping the bars and working the brake and throttle. Setting the bike on its kickstand, I walked a few steps to clear my head and glanced at the navigation app. For the first time, I felt trepidation where I normally would have felt exhilaration.
Had four years between trips like this really made such a difference? We like to joke that 60 is the new 40, but here I was, asking myself: Am I too old for this? Despite workouts, hiking, biking, yoga, and a healthy diet, I just don’t feel as strong as I had just a few years ago.
At 5’8” with a 32-inch inseam, my feet touch the ground on most bikes, which has given me a lot of confidence. But it was the weight that challenged me. The KLR weighs 400 pounds, and I’d added 100 pounds of gear: clothing, camping supplies, electronics, and food. Lately, I’d noticed that it was harder to heave it upright, especially if it leaned too far over on the kickstand. When did this happen?
I checked my navigation again and realized I had no cell service. The stakes were higher now. If I fell, I’d be walking miles to get help. For a moment, I considered turning back, but it didn’t feel right. After all, I’d just navigated a very tricky, rutted curve on my loaded adventure motorcycle. How much worse could it get?
By the time I reached my destination, I’d fishtailed through several gullies, veered off the road into a field, and nearly dropped the bike once, planting my leg firmly to keep it upright. Exhausted, I rolled into the ranch, a beautiful valley scattered with oak trees. I parked by a hitching post, shook out my tingling hands, and walked to the main building.
I found Rosa, the ranch cook, who showed me where to set up my tent. I unloaded the bike, inflated my mattress, topped it with my sleeping bag, and went for a short hike on the trail by the arroyo into a canyon. Rocky hillsides were bearded with early-November scrub brush, and clumps of wildflowers were going to seed. One of the ranch dogs accompanied me, trotting just ahead, and sat patiently waiting for me to catch up when she lost sight of me. There was no road noise, no generator noise, not even a jet flying overhead. Birds flitted to and fro, tittering and scattering in the dry leaves, bugs buzzed. There was a tinkle of rockfall and a breeze rattling the dry leaves on the oaks and sycamores. Mostly, there was the sound of my own breathing and footfall.
Reckoning With Identity
For years, adventure motorcycling has been my refuge. It’s how I escape, how I prove I’m strong. It’s how I think. Helmet time is sacred—a space where I’m unplugged, away from the noise of life. No podcasts, no calls, no music. Just me, the road, and the rhythm of the engine.
Back at camp, I cooked some noodles, and popped a Corona. Even the small effort of tearing a packet, pressing the ignition button on my JetBoil, pulling a beer tab— sent shooting pains up my fingers to my wrists. I couldn’t imagine riding on or even riding back. I tried to convince myself that in two days I’d be fine, ready to ride again. But as the moon rose over Baja’s wide-open sky, a question pressed harder: Is there bravery in letting go, too?
The next day, I met Raul and Caroline, the ranch owners. Raul shared stories of Baja’s misunderstood beauty, its resilience, and its culture. Caroline, his partner in life and work, spoke of her own adventures and the power of embracing change.
Sitting by the lodge’s wood stove, Caroline coaxed me to speak my fears out loud. I spoke of the difficulty of getting here and my fear about the changes in my body, my abilities, and riding back. I was surprised and a little ashamed to feel my eyes filling with tears. After I’d gotten control of my emotions, we sat in silence for a moment, listening to the pops and whooshes of the fire. The smell of woodsmoke mingled with Rosa’s cooking in the next room. The big moon poured white light into the room through the windows.
“Sometimes,” said Caroline, “change opens a door to something wonderful you didn’t expect.”
Facing What Comes Next
I couldn’t ignore what my body was telling me, so the next day, I turned toward home. I rode through the Valle de Guadalupe, passing vineyards, restaurants, hotels, and pottery shops, thinking about alternatives. A smaller bike. A vehicle that could carry a bike. Short fly-and-ride motorcycling destinations.
Letting go of long motorcycle journeys doesn’t erase the miles I’ve ridden or the places I’ve seen. It doesn’t undo the strength or joy those journeys have given me. I told myself that this change simply means I’m being called to redefine what adventure means for me now.
A New Journey
The US border guard at Tecate smiled as she scanned my passport. “I’d love to learn to ride a motorcycle, but I’m too short,” she said.
I laughed. “No, you’re not! Start with a Motorcycle Safety Foundation class—they use small bikes—and maybe try a Honda Rebel.” She smiled and wrote it down.
I continued into the US, following smooth highways that didn’t require much shifting or braking. Despite the discomfort in my hands, or perhaps because of it, I felt a bittersweet clarity.
This trip might have been my last big adventure on two wheels, but it also feels like the beginning of something new. Trading my motorcycle for an overland vehicle might let me carry a paddleboard or bike for other adventures. The new year invites reimagining. I don’t know exactly what’s next, but I know the road still calls—it just might look different now.
For Those Facing Their Own Shift
I never thought I’d face this crossroads, but here I am. If you’re feeling the same, know this: You’re not alone. Whether it’s age, injury, or life’s demands, the loss is real, and the grief is valid. But so is the opportunity to evolve.
My tears fogged my helmet visor as I considered this change. I felt betrayed by my body, resentful, and silly because I hadn’t planned for this. But we don’t stop being who we are because we can’t do what we once loved. The courage it takes to get out there and push your limits—it’s still yours. That courage will help you navigate this transition, too.