Just Send It!

A lot of people think I’m crazy for leading women on motorcycles through countries I’ve never even been to. And maybe I am. But that’s kind of the point—life’s too damn short to play it safe. I’ve got the coolest job on the planet: I take badass women riders across borders, through deserts, jungles, mountains, and madness. Every trip is a new country, a new challenge, and a new story.

One day I was scrolling through social media like a zombie, I saw an ad:

“Do female motorcycle riders have what it takes?”

I was like, “Hell yeah I do. Just not right now.”

So I applied to WeRoam Moto (formerly Freshline).

Next thing I know, I’m signed up for boot camp in Namibia, Africa. Medical tests, mechanical drills, riding challenges, team-building—all the gnarly stuff. I had something to look forward to. I started saying yes to everything. If my gut said go, I went. No regrets.

Next thing you know, I’m on a plane to Africa. Airport stares? Hilarious. Questions? Even better. We had to carry our gear on—no way were we risking lost luggage. Thirty-six hours later, I land in Windhoek. Almost missed my Cape Town connection, but that’s a story for another day.

Boot camp was intense. Workouts, drills, medical, mechanical, trail rides—you name it. One day, the coach asked if I wanted to race an enduro in Namibia. I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. My answer?

You bet!

We wrapped up camp, and I was rated highest in the group. I was in. Race day came. We lined up, staggered starts every 30 seconds. My turn came—I was off. Technical sections, rocky terrain, dry riverbeds. Brutal. I hit a two-foot rock step-up and made it after a couple tries. Then I fell, braced with my left wrist. It hurt, but I kept going. Eventually, I realized my wrist was jacked. Swollen, weak, not okay.

My gut spoke again: “Call it.”

So I did.

I sat on the sidelines, wrist ballooning. Had to wait for someone to come get me. Turns out, I’d taken a wrong turn and ended up on the pro course instead of amateur. No wonder it felt like hell. A German-speaking doc looked at my wrist—no clue what he said. I got my first DNF (Did Not Finish), but I was proud. I got to speak at the end of the race, and people were in awe that I made it as far as I did.

I flew home, went straight to work. My husband had booked me a doctor’s appointment. Turns out I fractured my scaphoid clean across. But you know what?

I came home injured, but I came home an international racer.