The wind cuts my neck like a thin sheet of ice on a still pond. I tilt my head downward and I’m greeted with mild relief. It’s amazing what a couple of degrees can do. The chin bar of my helmet now blocks and disturbs the cool September windblast just enough that the icy knife edge is dulled. For a moment I feel smart and cunning. The feeling passes the moment I catch a bug on the cheek. The 65 mph impact stings and I wince. Too bad I hadn’t thought to mount my clear visor. I could have it down at night, but I was either too vain or too thoughtless to mount that one instead of my tinted and iridescent one. So I suffer the periodic sting and blow to my ego.

Ego is good. It helps us grow and take chances. I watch my 7-year-old bound off to 2nd grade ready to take on the world. She hasn’t been stung enough to lose faith that she will see all her dreams come true. I watch my 2 1/2-year-old bound across the play structure at a downtown park and she tumbles because she became too trusting that running like a wild woman has no consequences. Egos get bruised and it does us good. We learn we are not flawless. We note our errors and adjust.

As we take to a four lane, I roll the throttle open and shift gears higher and higher. I tuck in behind a fast moving, but steady car. We’re in a less populated zone that’s 20 miles between towns. High speeds are normal, if not exactly legal, out here. Another car passes us. He’s flying. He’s our radar bait. We let him go on ahead so he gets caught first. The car in front of us is doing what I would do, increasing velocity and keeping Speed Racer in sight, but never catching up to him. This is good.

My motorcycle’s engine bellows at high speed, but it’s hard to hear over the wind noise. I reach back with my left hand and wrap my arm around the outside of my wife’s thigh and cup my fingers around her shin just below her knee. I pull her tighter to me and she responds with a gentle squeeze to my sides. We pass Mr. and Mrs. Walter Mitty on the inside. The wife in the passenger seat stares at us. My wife will remark later at a rest stop that it must look so carefree or careless when inside a rumbling cage to see us ripping past. One handed. At speed. Snuggled up. At 90! What is second nature to some is extreme to others.

We stop for dinner, and I swap regular fries for sweet potato fries. I eat my fish with no batter and enjoy my side salad as an option to another greasy standard item. My wife downs a burger. I wonder if my menu choices make me look snotty. Ego check. The bill is settled and we’re on our way. This time we’ve each got an extra sweatshirt under our jackets. Back on the bike and temps are dropping fast.

Through the darkness my LED headlight cuts a swath of clarity. My left thumb switches to high beam and ignites a flame thrower that lights up the road like a TV studio. I think about how far ahead it’s shining. I swear I can see into next year. If only I could have seen that far two and a half years ago.

2 1/2 hours later and it’s midnight as we pull into the driveway. As we put away our things, I ask my wife if she’s concerned about riding with me – a heart patient. She tells me, “I don’t think of you as a heart patient. You’ve raced at speeds others dream of. This ride today doesn’t tax your abilities, it’s pure pleasure.”

I tell her, “Now you’re stroking my ego.”

“No. No. I mean, I don’t think of you as a heart patient when riding or doing any activity with you today. I only think of it with meal planning or shopping. Even then, I’m thinking of you in the health and fitness aspect. What’s going to be good for protein content or great when complimented with sweet potato. You’re not a sick heart patient. You’re just a heart patient. You’re not sick anymore.”

She’s right. Two years ago I was still sick. I had been through hell twice and there was still something wrong. Then I got fixed for real.

If I won the lottery I wouldn’t have done anything differently today. I think about that. We would have taken the same trip and enjoyed the same outing. Actually, I’d do more of them. If my headlight shown two years into the future I’d have been relieved. After all, I’m better than two years ago. I’m better than THREE years ago. But then again, maybe it’s good I couldn’t see it. I needed to be scared straight. Scared enough when I got the, “We can make you comfortable” speech that I suddenly saw the ghost of Christmas Future and I was Ebenezer backpedaling and promising to change everything about my lifestyle and my mindset if I could have one more day and undo the chains I’d forged in life.

I’m lucky. They were wrong. A third procedure would fix me.

When this first started, almost two and a half years ago, I was scared about what my future had to offer. My question was not whether I would road race or drag race a motorcycle in competition again. I questioned if I would ever ride again – at all. Today I took a trip to see something important to my wife and her family (look up Mohawk Park) and see something for me (look up Hoosac Tunnel). We ventured through three states and a crazy amount of miles. We saw amazing sites and were immersed in the world around us. It’s something you can only experience on two wheels. Where scents invade your helmet: cut grass, railroad ties, farmland, campfires. And environment assaults you: rain, wind, cold, and heat find every crack and gap to sneak in and touch your skin.

I’m here. I’m alive and living this adventure. Touching pieces of history like the cold that sneaks into my jacket. On my mantle is a railroad spike from a 5-mile-long tunnel built between 1851 and 1875.  200 men gave up their lives for its construction. I’ve been there. I’ve touched it.

It’s humbling.

My ego is in check. And I’m happy for it. It is only so, because I am alive.

I want to tell every new heart patient this isn’t the end. Some here have called it their second birthday. For me it’s true. My life wasn’t over, it was just beginning. I hope yours is too.