Half an Enchilada
Moab has a way of stripping everything down.
The air feels different. The light hits different. Everything unnecessary just… falls away.
It’s just rock, sky, breath, and whatever you brought with you.
And this time, what I brought with me wasn’t just about riding.
It was people.
A hundred women scattered across the desert.
Tents tucked into the dirt. Vans with back doors open to the sunset. Little pockets of life set up in every direction.
Every version of “this works.”
Different lives. Different paths.
Same place.
And there’s something about that… being surrounded by women walking completely different roads, but choosing to meet here.
It softens things.
Mae and I had the Highlander Hideout.
She built it out herself.
A platform bed in the back. Storage tucked underneath. Everything with a place, everything thought through.
Simple. Intentional.
She sees something… and builds it.
Quietly. Creatively.
Turning something ordinary into something that feels like home.
I really love that about her.
We saw old friends. Met new ones.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, our new friend Julie handed me a Hot Tamale.
Fireball.
I forgot that was still a thing.
And sitting there under the desert sky, that hit of cinnamon… something in me woke up.
Like a reminder.
That somewhere in there… the firecracker version of me still exists.
Not softened. Not diluted. Not turned into something easier to sip.
Just… fire.
Maybe this is what the edge of 40 feels like.
Not a dimming.
A remembering.
And somewhere after that, we found ourselves sitting on the desert floor in conversations that felt… real.
Not surface level. Not careful.
Just honest.
The kind that reminds you people can meet each other exactly where they are… without needing to agree on everything.
We rode with strong riders.
The kind who make things feel possible just by being near them.
And the kind who quietly help you out when you need it… no big deal made of it.
That part stays with you.
And then there’s Malee.
There’s something really special about being with someone who just wants to ride bikes with you.
No expectations. No pressure.
Just riding.
And the moment she gets on her bike, she changes.
It’s instant.
Her whole energy shifts.
She melts. Elevates. Transforms right in front of me.
Whatever she was carrying before… it stays back there somewhere.
Joy is the only thing that exists.
Like a vortex.
And being next to that, you feel it.
You start laughing more. Letting go faster. Not overthinking everything.
You feel like a kid again.
And there’s something so pure about that.
About riding a bike. About sharing that with someone you love.
That kind of joy… you don’t miss it.
We rode.
And if you know Moab, you know The Whole Enchilada.
We did as much as was open.
A little over half. About 23–24 miles.
More than enough.
About 30 seconds in, I went straight over my handlebars.
First rock roll.
Just like that.
Ego checked.
There were moments I felt strong.
And moments I stopped.
Stared at a line.
Not because I couldn’t do it… but because I hadn’t decided that I could.
That’s the edge.
Not skill. Not strength.
Decision.
Nights in circles.
Dust on our legs. Sun on our skin.
Laughing. Talking. Just being.
No one performing. No one proving anything.
Moab didn’t give me anything.
It showed me.
Where I trust myself. Where I don’t.
Where I hold back.
And where I don’t need to anymore.
Half an Enchilada.
And somehow…
the whole experience.
