Sweet Family Ride — The First Ride with My Dad and My Brother

Some rides are about the road. Some rides are about the destination. And some rides are about the people you're riding with — and those are the ones that stay with you forever.

This was the first time I rode with my Dad and my brother. It meant the world to me.

What Riding Gave Back

Learning to ride a motorcycle has been the best decision I've made in my life. I mean that completely — and trust me, decisions like that don't come around very often. But beyond the freedom, beyond the roads, beyond everything else riding has given me, the thing I didn't fully anticipate was this: it gave me back a connection with the men in my family that I hadn't had in the same way before.

My Dad, the man who taught my brother everything he knows. My brother — the artist behind every VCMCo. design, the man who races flat track and builds things with his hands and fixes whatever needs fixing without ever needing a shop. Getting on motorcycles together and just riding — no agenda, no destination locked in, just the road and the people you love — is something I didn't know I was missing until I had it.

The Route — South Carson to Topaz Lake

We started in south Carson City and took the foothill road through Genoa — Nevada's oldest town, tucked against the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada with the Carson Valley spread out below. The road through there is beautiful in the way that Northern Nevada roads often are: unhurried, scenic, and completely unpretentious. We passed some really great farmhouses along the way, the kind that remind you this valley has been worked and loved for generations.

From Genoa we continued south to Markleeville, California — the tiny Alpine County seat that sits at the confluence of the Carson River tributaries, surrounded by mountains and pine. A natural stopping point, a chance to breathe, and a moment to just be somewhere beautiful together.

Then we pointed the bikes up Monitor Pass — Highway 89 climbing through the Sierra Nevada with views that open up in every direction as you gain elevation. Not a fast rip, but a good one. The kind of pass that rewards you for being on a motorcycle instead of in a car. We came down the other side to Topaz Lake, right on the Nevada-California border, where the high desert meets the water and the whole landscape shifts.

Roadside Wrenching — No Shop Required

At Topaz Lake, my brother decided it was a good time to work on my bike. Out came the tools — right there, on the side of the road — and he adjusted my handlebars. No shop required. No appointment. No waiting. Just someone who knows what he's doing, a set of tools, and the attitude that if something needs fixing you fix it right now and get back on the road.

I love that about him. That's the kind of person he is — capable, practical, and completely unphased by whatever needs doing. The same hands that draw the artwork on VCMCo.'s shirts adjusted my handlebars at Topaz Lake on a summer morning, and we were gassed up and back on the road before it even felt like a stop.

Home by Noon

We got home by noon. Relaxing and enjoyable from start to finish — no drama, no rushing, no agenda beyond being together on the road. The kind of morning that fills you up in a way that's hard to explain to someone who hasn't experienced it.

I have a note for myself from that day: "Must work on parking in a group!" Still working on it. But everything else about that ride was exactly right.

The Connection That Riding Creates

There is something about riding together that creates a bond that's different from anything else. You're each in your own world on the bike — your own thoughts, your own experience of the road — and yet you're completely together. You stop at the same places, you see the same things, you share the same air. And when you pull over at Topaz Lake and your brother gets out his tools and fixes your handlebars on the side of the road, you understand that this is what family looks like when it's working the way it's supposed to.

I can't wait till next weekend. I never can anymore.