Motorcycle Racing and a Stroke.

Let me start by bringing up the past.

I used to race motorcycles—a long time ago. Yamaha RD’s. Two-strokes. Café racers. The kind of bikes that, when you twisted the throttle, shot forward like a rocket. If I leaned low into a corner and turned my head too far, I’d lose your nose in a heartbeat. I had to think fast, move fast, react fast.  But that was decades ago. Back when I believed I was invincible. Long before I had a stroke.

Which brings us to today.

I did have a stroke. It stole my ability to speak, to walk, to move—or even think—at the same pace. My entire right side lost all sense of temperature. My left side had the classic droop and weakness. It’s a strange thing when your own body abandons you.

I was one of the lucky ones. I came from a strong family, and one of my sisters is a trainer. She stayed with me for a couple of weeks—cooking meals, taking care of my kids, and dragging me out of bed to teach my legs how to walk again. I hated it. It hurt, it exhausted me. Thirty minutes of exercise meant four hours of sleep afterward. But eventually, I could walk around the block with my dog.

That wasn’t good enough—not for me. I had to challenge myself. Facing my own mortality forced me to ask: What’s left for me to do? So much, as it turns out. And one of those things was finally getting the motorcycle I’d always wanted.

I found it in Reno, Nevada, for a great price. But that meant flying—something doctors don’t recommend after a stroke—and then riding it home through mountain passes and crowded freeways when I still struggled with balance.  The perfect challenge.

To be honest, I was terrified. On the flight there, I practiced breathwork just to stay calm. Riding through the mountain passes, one mantra echoed in my head:

“Concentrate. Stay fully engaged. Don’t let your mind wander. If you do, you’ll lose balance. If you lose balance, you’ll die.”

Not the most inspiring mantra, but it was true—and it kept me alive.

I made it home, safe and in one piece. That was ten months ago. And while I was proud of that accomplishment, the moment that impressed me most happened just last night.

I was riding along Highway 101 at sunset, heading toward San Francisco. The sun was low, blinding me as traffic suddenly slowed—red taillights filling my vision.

Before I could think, before I could take control, my body reacted: left hand pulled in the clutch, right hand rolled off the throttle, foot dropped a gear, and I leaned hard into the next lane, cranking the gas. Smooth. Sharp. Instinctive. It was as though I was nineteen again, racing motorcycles.

I could never have made that move if I’d stopped to think about it. It was pure instinct. Pure muscle memory. I didn’t think I had it in me anymore—but in that instant, I realized the old Mel is still here.

I still have lingering problems from the stroke—internal challenges not as easy to overcome as rebuilding muscle. But now I believe in myself again.

Or at least, I’m excited about who I used to be—and what still lies ahead.