No One Rides Alone

First Wobbles

When I first got back on a motorbike after a twenty-something-year gap, I wouldn’t go faster than 50mph on the motorway. I say “on” the motorway. What I really mean is “clinging to the left-hand lane with white knuckles, shoulders up by my ears, and eyeballs fixed on the horizon like my life depended on it.” Because it sort of felt like it did.

I’d passed my test years ago. I had my bike. But my confidence? That was still back at junction 8.

And yet, rather than laugh or leave me behind, the friends who rode with me simply adjusted. No drama. No ego. Just quiet support and wise observations like, “You might find it steadier if you loosen your grip a little,” or “The aim is smooth, not fast.” It was never a lecture. Just gentle nudges in the right direction. Before the ice-cream stop.

That kind of help leaves a mark — and not just on your riding.

The Kind of Help That Stays With You

I’ve been on tours where we started as strangers and ended as something else entirely. There’s something about sharing risk and beauty and the occasional breakdown on a remote mountain pass that forges connection fast. On one trip, we bonded so tightly we ended up getting tattoos together — and we’d only met four days earlier. That’s the impact a ride can have. Before you ask, no. No regrets.

There’s a kind of magic in a group that rides well together. Where no one is left behind, where you check each other’s mirrors and fuel caps, and laugh like you’ve known each other forever. These are more than trips. They’re reminders that even the most independent spirits still thrive in the warmth of belonging.

Early in my riding career I volunteered for a while with The Bike Experience — an extraordinary organisation helping people with disabilities get back on two wheels. You learn quickly that ability, age, or background mean nothing. What matters is your love of riding. The whole group opens its arms. Nobody is left outside. They walk you through it. Hold your bike. Catch your tears. Then cheer when you take off down the runway, reborn. Those experiences were truly uplifting.

And lately, I’ve felt that same support in a completely different arena — powerlifting. I started just 18 months ago, with two simple goals: to feel stronger than I did ten years ago, and to compete at the British Masters Championships. I’m not known for being wildly disciplined (I’ve quit more things than I’ve finished), but somehow this time, I stuck it out. And last weekend, I stood on the podium with a silver medal around my neck.

I didn’t do it alone. My coach, Sandra, was behind me every step. My family and friends shouted themselves hoarse at every comp. Their belief carried me through every wobble, just like the riders once did. The support might have looked different — chalk instead of fuel, squat racks instead of winding roads — but the feeling was the same. Strength, built together.

The Roads That Made Me

Pendine was a turning point. So was Bonneville. But not just for the speeds or the salt. What stuck with me were the people — volunteers, racers, strangers-turned-friends — who showed up and helped without fuss. Someone always had a tool, a spare visor, a story to calm the nerves. It was never about proving anything. It was about showing up for each other.

That same spirit lives in the Blood Bikers — those unsung heroes who ferry vital supplies across the UK, all on their own bikes, all as volunteers. Once a blood biker, you join something bigger. It’s a shared purpose, not just a shared passion. I still have my Hi-Viz tucked safely in the cupboard, waiting. It’s more than a role — it’s a bond.

And then there’s the sisterhood. WIMA. WRWR. Horizons Unlimited. The Ladies of Bonneville. Women lifting each other up, trading advice, cheering every brave step. These women changed how I see riding — and myself. Their example reminds me: you are never alone out here. Not really.

A Thank You in Motion

This chapter — and this blog — is a thank you. To every rider who slowed down for me. To every stranger who became a friend. To the volunteers who kept me safe. To the sisters who rode beside me. To the ones who whispered, “You’ve got this,” when I doubted I did. Quite a lot of the time as it happens.

Because here’s the truth: no one rides alone. Even when you’re on your own bike, throttle in hand, it’s never just you. You’re carrying the kindness of others. The wisdom of shared mistakes. The echo of every laugh around a campfire and every lifted visor at a fuel stop.

I haven’t even scratched the surface of all the people I owe thanks to — but if you’ve ever ridden beside me, even just for a mile, know this: I remember.

So wherever you’re riding next, carry someone else’s encouragement with you. And when the chance comes, offer your own. That’s how we do it. That’s how we ride.