He offered to sell the bike back—same price—if I joined his group for one ride. “No one rides alone,” he said. That Sunday, I rode again. Forty miles with people who’d lost just as much—grief, PTSD, broken hearts. It felt like breathing again. I talked about Mia for the first time in weeks.
When the ride ended, Rick handed me the key. I took it. Back home, I handed my kids helmets. We rode around the block, their laughter cutting through the air. Mia was still gone. But for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was. Letting go hadn’t been the mistake. Thinking I had to ride alone was.
