the Northern Dream jacket...

Rain. A war drum on the Pacific Coast Highway. The storm eats the sun, leaving the sky bruised, bleeding wild colors across the ocean. Waves smash the cliffs, spray whipping like shattered glass. To my left, the canyon. To my right, the abyss.

Denim soaked. The Northern Dream Jacket heavy, alive, clinging to me like a second skin. The road twists, black and slick, a serpent winding through chaos. Wind tears at me, trying to peel me off the bike, but I lean in, push harder. The rain stings. Feels good.

Four states, a thousand miles, a blur of mountains and desert and neon reflections in motel windows. This road is the last stretch, the final test. The line between sane and insane, between the dream and the drop.

Lightning cracks. The world lights up electric. The ocean screams back. I am nothing out here. Just a man, a machine, and a storm that doesn’t give a damn.

The jacket, the denim—soaked, weathered, marked by the miles. Not just clothes. More than that. Proof. That I was here. That I rode through the storm and came out the other side.

Mother Nature throws it all at me. I don’t flinch. I grin. We dance.