What Loyalty Means to Me

People often ask me why I love riding.

They look at the machine beneath me and see danger.

They look at the speed and see risk.

They look at me and ask, “Why would you choose something that can hurt you?”

And they’re not wrong.

Bikes are dangerous—especially when ridden fast.

And yes, I ride fast.

When the air slams against my face and the speedometer crosses 100, something strange happens. The world slows down. Sounds soften. Lights blur just a little. The weight I’ve been carrying—deadlines, disappointments, unanswered questions, unspoken pain—falls off my shoulders for a few seconds. In that moment, I’m not overthinking. I’m not anxious. I’m not broken or waiting to be understood.

I’m just present.

That’s where loyalty begins for me.

Loyalty, to me, is not perfection.

It’s not safety.

It’s not the promise that you’ll never get hurt.

Loyalty is what stays when things do hurt.

People today talk about loyalty like it’s a badge, but they drop it the moment it becomes inconvenient. Someone can say they care, say they’re yours—and still walk away the second life gets messy. A girl may hurt me deeply, leave me alone in my worst phase, and move on happily somewhere else. I don’t hate her for choosing herself. But I can’t call that loyalty.

Because loyalty doesn’t leave you bleeding on the road and pretend it never knew you.

My bike can hurt me too. It can throw me off balance. It can scar my skin. But when an accident happens, it doesn’t abandon me—it absorbs half the impact itself. Bent metal. Scratched paint. Broken parts. It takes the hit with me.

That’s loyalty.

When words fail me, when anger builds up inside my chest and I don’t know how to release it without hurting someone—I twist the throttle. The engine roars the things I cannot say out loud. Every gear shift is a scream I didn’t have to aim at a person. Every acceleration is emotion leaving my body without judgment.

That’s loyalty.

It doesn’t ask me to explain myself.

It doesn’t misunderstand my silence.

It doesn’t demand that I be easy to love.

It just stays.

Loyalty, to me, isn’t about who makes life safer.

It’s about who stands beside you when life gets dangerous.

Who doesn’t disappear when you’re at your lowest speed or your highest rage.

Who takes damage so you don’t take it all alone.

So when people ask me why I ride, I don’t talk about adrenaline or thrill.

I talk about trust.

I talk about presence.

I talk about something that stays—no matter how fast, how loud, or how broken I feel.

That’s what loyalty means to me.