The One We Wish We All Had

All right, I rode up there with both of them. Joe was driving, Julie in the passenger seat. I started in his hand like always—black coffee, strong grip, quiet. But somewhere along the way, I ended up with her.

It didn't really happen all at once; it just kind of did. One stop, then another, and next thing I know, I'm riding shotgun. We get to the North Woods Enduro. It's a big race for Joe. I heard him say, "This could be my last."

I stay with her. She's volunteering, helping where she's needed. By the end of the day, she's working stage seven—the last stage. She's at the start gate, calling riders up, checking numbers. Every now and then, she looks out into the woods, waiting.

He comes through the earlier stages—not great, not terrible—but you can see it: he's fading. When he gets to stage seven, it's different. He rolls in slow, shoulders down, eyes somewhere else.

He walks the bike up, doesn't look at anyone. And I can feel it: her hand tightens around me just a little. She knows. He gets to the gate and just stands there. Doesn't clip in.

Then he says it, quiet: "I don't got it today." That's the moment. That's the race. Not the trail, not the clock. Right there.

She steps in. Not loud, just firm. "You got this." He doesn't answer. She leans in a little closer, still holding me. Joe loves it when Julie quotes movies. "You're not Murtaugh. You are not too old for this shit."

That one lands. Not a smile, not confidence, but something shifts. He clips in, rolls up to the line. 3, 2, 1... gone.

She stands there watching the trail swallow him up, still holding me. Because whatever happens out there, he didn't quit. She didn't let him. And that's the whole deal when you've got the right one.