It happened two years ago. An acquaintance suggested we go for a ride—just for the fun of it, no special occasion. I said "yes" before I even had time to think. Then I didn't sleep a wink all night—torn between fear and anticipation.

The next morning, standing in the driveway looking at that black machine, I thought: "Yana, have you lost your mind? You’re thirty-two, you have a mortgage—you’re not exactly at the age for wild adventures." But I was already holding the helmet. So, I got on.

For the first few minutes, I didn't breathe. I held on so tight my fingers cramped. Every bump jarred my spine; every turn felt like a brush with death. I screamed inside my helmet, but the wind drowned it out. Then, something clicked. The fear vanished. I loosened my grip. And I felt the speed—real, living speed, not the kind you see in movies.

We rode along the highway, past fields, past summer cottages, past other people's lives. Suddenly, I realized I wasn't thinking about anything—not work, not plans, not what anyone else might say. I was just riding. And it was the most liberating feeling I’d had in years.

When we stopped, I took off my helmet and couldn't speak at first. My legs were shaking, and my hair was a wild mess. But I was smiling so hard my cheeks ached. I said, "Again."

Since then, I’ve been riding on my own. I bought my own bike—not new, not fancy, but mine. Every Saturday, weather permitting, I just ride wherever the road takes me. Not for the speed. But for that feeling—just me and the road. And no one else.

People told me: "It’s dangerous." "It’s not for women." "Why do you need this?" My answer? Because I’m living. I’m not just existing, planning, or waiting for the right moment. I’m living. Right now—on two wheels, with the wind in my face.

Have you ever tried something that didn't seem like "your thing"? Or are you still afraid to give it a try?

Yana