She rides

They said the road was written
in a man’s hand,
that throttle and torque
belonged to heavier boots,
louder voices.
They were wrong.
She rides with fire in her veins,
not to prove a point,
but because the engine answers
something ancient in her chest.
Because freedom has a sound,
and she knows it by heart.
Her hands know the weight of steel,
the bite of cold mornings,
the quiet courage it takes
to lean into fear
and trust herself anyway.
She doesn’t ride like a man.
She rides like a woman
who refuses to be small.
Every mile is earned.
Every scar is honest.
Every corner whispered back:
you belong here.
They watch.
They doubt.
They measure her by mirrors and myths.
But the road never asks her gender.
The wind never questions her worth.
The machine never doubts her skill.
She rides with passion,
with grit,
with grace sharpened by experience.
Not tolerated.
Not invited.
Claimed.
She is not the exception.
She is the proof.
And when she disappears
into the horizon,
what’s left behind is silence—
and respect.

By Stephanie Veronique