Like this:

i know i’ve mentioned my totally bad-ass wife in passing on this blog, all over Facebook, and Twitter as well. sometimes i think she thinks i’m joking, or maybe patronizing. but there’s no doubt about it; my wife Laura is an insanely hardcore badass chick. baby, this blog is for (and to -) you.

sweetheart, you have always, always blown my mind. when Naomi introduced us way back in 1997, i knew there was something special about you. it was easy to be around you; i never felt i had to be anybody other than myself. you didn’t ever flinch when i said what i was thinking. often, you laughed. you relieved me of my self-consciousness, my insecurity. i loved you almost immediately, but i didn’t tell anybody – i didn’t want to jinx it.

i remember when you used to hop on the back of Lars’ old CB900 with me and just rip around the mountains. we’d ride out the river to Marshall, and i’d tap your leg to indicate i was going to pin it; you just held on tighter. i liked that. we put some miles on that bike! we’d take off and run over Hickory Nut Gap, or across Number 9, or go waterfall hunting out on 276. it felt so real to me, after so many years of faking it with various women.

you have always let me have my “me” time. i remember telling you “there’s going to come a day when you might think i love my bike more than i love you, and it may be true – but if i don’t ride, i’m not going to be any fun to be around,” and you, again, didn’t flinch. you didn’t get angry, you didn’t go to insecurity. you have always accepted me as is, and i love you for that. you have even gone so far as to become an accomplished bike rider yourself – both pedal- and petrol-powered.

i remember talking to you from Las Vegas, and you told me you had taken that horrible old Huffy for a ride. i asked you where you’d gone, and you told me you rode out Beaverdam, up Webb Cove, where you had a drink and a cigarette. then you went down Town Mountain, and back to the apartment from Charlotte Street. you went on to say you were a little tired. i was flabbergasted. speechless. i exclaimed that you had ridden at least 18 miles, off the couch, on a heavy, scary piece of crap with plastic pedals! and stopped for a smoke in the middle of it!

i remember taking you to the Innsbruck Mall parking lot and teaching you to ride that little GS500. then we rode up to the Parkway to that first overlook past the tunnel, where you solo’ed. you took off up the Parkway toward Craggy, and came back a long time later, breathless and smiling, eyes bright. i love your eyes when you smile.

soon after that, we went to take our written tests to get learners’ permits; you passed, i failed. me, with an MSF course and twenty years of street riding; you with a few hours of street riding and your indomitable will. you’ve put a ton of miles on a motorcycle since then! can you believe it? you rode to Myrtle Beach alone. you rode to Daytona with me and Ben. you rode home on my big Triumph from the Outer Banks, stopping to do a 10k halfway home. read that last sentence again – you rode 4 hours, stopped overnight, ran a 10k, then rode 4 more hours home.  this after towing the camper, nine hours alone with a five-year-old, to the Outer Banks in the first place.

i used to joke that i knew you were the right one for me because i didn’t have to adjust the seat when i got in your car. you’re also the first woman i’ve ever met who has yet to scare the shit out of me with your driving. you are every bit as competent and attentive a driver as i was taught to be, and probably five or six times as courteous. i love traveling with you. i look forward to many more miles together, whether two or four wheels. i would trust you to take that 25 foot RV into the wind while i nap in the back. wake me up when we hit Albuquerque.

i love how you take care of me, time after time. even after you threaten not to if i hurt myself again. you’ve seen me through a badly sprained ankle, a ruptured spleen, two collarbones in the same year, a broken wrist, a shattered finger, a rashed face, and too many other bumps, scrapes, and bruises to count. always with the same exasperated tenderness, and always with compassion and empathy. i hate to put you through it, but i love being cared for by your gentle hands. i promise i’ve never done any of those things on purpose.

this past weekend, you forgot your shoes and helmet when we went to do that Metric Century. again unstoppable, you decided to go ahead and ride the 22 mile Family Ride in your flip-flops. on clipless pedals. you were not just poking along, either. i’m pretty sure we set the course record for the Family Ride with you in your flip-flops. you are unstoppable. you are amazing. not many people would or could have done just that one thing that doesn’t seem like such a big deal to you. and the reason why it wasn’t such a big deal? because you did a 35-mile ride in flip-flops once before. you’re sometimes not impressed with yourself because you already did something even more badass without thinking it was a big deal.

the next day, you hopped on the R6 and knocked out close to 200 miles of twisties, alone. you are my soulmate. i want nobody else but you helping me out if and when the excrement hits the air conditioner.

casually totally hot

as i write this, you’re training for a triathlon. you have run a half-marathon, and you have raced a 12-hour mountain bike race. you’ve won more than one downhill mountain bike race, and done the above 100k road bike ride in 3 hours!  you’ve gotten lost in the deep woods on your dirtbike and kept it together enough to make it home the same day. you’ve done some pretty fast laps on the track on a racing motorcycle.

you gave birth to our son naturally after 15 hours of labor. you took that same child to meet his extended family across the big pond when he was only seven months old. you’ve been married to me for going on 7 years now – in 3 short days, we’ll have been together for 14 years (can that be right?). that, perhaps, is the most hardcore thing you’ve ever done. i’m sure i’m not an easy task.

you still blow my mind. i love you, Laura Jane. here’s to another 14 years.