JOINT BASE SAN ANTONIO-RANDOLPH, Texas -- On a crisp, dark morning Nov. 3, 2023, the quiet hum of the Texas countryside lay undisturbed as I set out at 5:30 a.m. My motorcycle hummed beneath me like a trusted stallion.
That serenity was about to be shattered.
My destination was the Chapman Annex at JBSA-Lackland, Texas, where I would teach the Advanced Rider Course to fellow motorcyclists from Joint Base San Antonio. The world still slumbered as I rolled onto Highway 87, the early morning air sharp against my face, the open road stretching endlessly toward the horizon.
La Vernia, my small hometown, slipped away behind me as I gained speed, the machine beneath me purring effortlessly at 73 mph. With my thoughts focused on the upcoming course and the art of precision riding, I crested the top of a hill.
In an instant, the calm gave way to chaos.
There it lay. A massive, lifeless deer sprawled across the fast lane, an unforgiving obstacle painted by the dim glow of my headlights. My adrenaline surged like a tidal wave. I had less than two seconds — two heartbeats — to act.
In that fleeting moment, years of training snapped into play like a well-oiled machine. Instinct overruled panic. My hand flew to the throttle, disengaging the cruise control. My eyes locked on the soft underbelly of the deer — the only chance to minimize impact. I swerved deliberately, a surgeon’s precision in my movements.
As my bike hit the deer, I lifted my body off the seat, legs taut and strong, transforming myself into a living shock absorber. The impact sent me and the machine soaring four feet into the air, the wind roaring in my ears as the earth fell away beneath me. For a split second, time stretched endlessly — man, machine and fate entwined in the stillness.
Then gravity took its claim. The motorcycle slammed back onto the highway with a force that could have sent me tumbling across the unrelenting asphalt. The front wheel shuddered violently, the dreaded “death wobble” snapping back and forth at 65 mph. This moment separated skill from catastrophe. I tightened my grip, my pulse steady as steel, and instinctively pulled in the clutch. Slowly, carefully, I feathered the brakes, coaxing the unruly beast beneath me to settle.
The machine obeyed. I guided it into the emergency lane, the road silent once more as the echoes of the encounter faded. My breath came heavy, my heart finally pounding in my chest, but I was alive. My motorcycle was alive.
As I stood on the side of the road and looked back at the scene, I realized how thin the line between calamity and survival truly is. What kept me upright — what kept me breathing — wasn’t luck. It was preparation. It was the hundreds of hours of training, the relentless honing of skill and the meticulous weekly maintenance I pour into my bike.
The aftermath? A damaged belt — trivial compared to what could have been.
But this story isn’t just mine. It’s a lesson to every rider who thinks training is a box to check, a requirement to fulfill. It is not. Training is survival. Training is the edge you carry into every ride, every unexpected moment, and every decision you make on two wheels. It’s the difference between sliding helplessly into the unknown and carving your way through chaos with control and confidence.
As a rider coach and motorcycle safety representative, I preach what I practice. I ride with purpose — nearly 60,000 miles on my machine, half of them dedicated to training. Whether teaching classes or challenging myself in solitude, every mile is a sharpened edge against complacency.
The road demands respect. The road tests you when you least expect it. And in those moments, preparation becomes your greatest ally, your silent partner in survival.
So, to every rider reading this: Train constantly. Maintain religiously. Ride with purpose. Because the day will come when the road throws everything it has at you, and when it does, you’ll either falter … or fly.