“I was riding my motorcycle through New Mexico when I hit a dust storm. For an hour and a half, the wind was so strong I had to lean into it. If I let up, I was going down. I could barely see beyond a truck’s taillights, so I followed those lights and prayed.

At one point I thought, Regina, you better change your attitude, or this isn’t going to work. I started thanking God for the strength, for the endurance, for the reminder that this too shall pass. Meanwhile, part of me was thinking, I cannot believe I’m in a dust storm. How am I supposed to know what to do?

Then at the beginning of my trip into Texas, I got caught in a windstorm. I had never experienced it before, and heading out west to Utah, I experienced it again. God had been preparing me for the bigger storms. Riding has become a deep spiritual metaphor for my life.

I grew up in Detroit, but never felt like I fit in Michigan. When I moved to Baldwin County, the culture shock was massive, but I felt I’d come home. It took me years to calm down and reprogram. I learned there is a difference between hospitality and camaraderie. Hospitality is good manners, but sometimes it’s Fort Knox trying to get in. Camaraderie is, ‘You’re in,’ right from the start. I am grateful I grew up with that camaraderie experience. What you see is what you get. I live in the balance of both today. 

When I was sixteen, my friend dated a guy with a Harley. He offered me a spin, and I jumped on. That day I promised myself that every year, I would go somewhere, experience something, or do something new. I’m fifty-five now, and I’ve kept that promise.

I got sober on November 5, 2001. 25 years ago. My first sponsor challenged me to write a hundred gratitudes on one side of a notebook and a hundred dreams on the other. Two dreams were riding a motorcycle and seeing all fifty states. I tucked that notebook away.

After my divorce, one of the first things I did was buy a Honda 250 Rebel. It was very Legally Blonde. At the dealership, I had no idea what I was doing. Ride it home? No way. A friend taught me to ride in the Fairhope High School parking lot. We were out there at sunset when she said, “There’s a Mardi Gras parade tonight. We should take our motorcycles.”

What part of ‘I just learned to ride’ don’t you understand? But she said we’d only go twenty-five miles an hour. So Tweedledee and Tweedledum took off. That was my first real ride. After that,  the world was my playroom.

On a motorcycle, you have to be present. It clears everything out. Near the Perdido River, I smell mimosa trees along those groovy curves. Once I rode four hours in the rain through the mountains of West Virginia, staying behind truckers to block some of the water. I was scared to death. But every mountain peak looked like it had a chimney, smoke coming out. I thought, ‘Oh my God, I’m going to die,’ and at the same time, I was in awe. What a privilege to witness it.

One day in Pennsylvania, I was tired and whiny. No animals. Just mountains everywhere. At a gas station, I pulled up next to a van of Amish girls. Here I am, taking off my helmet and shaking out my hair. I gave them a wink, and they started giggling.

Then my map rerouted me through mountain switchbacks into an Amish community. Not the tourist version—their actual world. I saw a woman beating clothes on the line, and a boy on a bicycle in his little hat. Red barns, white sheep and rows of crops so precise I couldn’t believe it. Nowhere to pull over for a picture. I just rode through on Miss Roxy, that’s my motorcycle, trying not to cry. It felt like I had the golden ticket.

Sometimes the road tells you to stop, though. On my first attempt to ride to Maine, my little Rebel gave out in Connecticut. She wouldn’t go over forty. I have a motto: Am I trying to have a good experience, or am I trying to be a hero? I called it. I pulled over to this nice restaurant by the water, had a lobster roll and cheesecake, got a tow, and stayed at a friend’s home I’d met through a recovery meeting on Zoom, even though they weren’t staying there that weekend. How generous. When I left, I told them to give the bike to someone in recovery who could fix it and needed it.

On my next attempt, I made it to Maine. The motorcycle needed an easy battery repair, and I found a recovery meeting nearby. I ended up having lunch by the water with about thirteen people. One old-timer I met there still texts me affirmations every morning.

I bring that same spirit home. I do hair, nails, and pedicures in Foley. The worse your feet situation, the more excited I get. Some clients come in crying because they’re embarrassed or have gone so long without care. Sometimes they leave crying, too, because they have found their balance and have hope again. When I’m serving, I feel closest to the spirit. 

During COVID, I was alone, and it would have been easy to sink into self-pity. I sewed masks, then organized homemade cards for nursing home residents since they were being cut off from everyone. After Hurricane Sally, I grabbed my shovel and snippers and walked my neighborhood to help. That’s how I met my neighbors. All it took was a willingness to be part of the we.

I experienced my first real sunrise at Camp Beckwith. I got up early on a nudge, and God rolled out a red path across the water straight toward me. People save all their pennies to visit places like this. And here it is right at my feet. Be present where you’re at and see what happens.

After moving here, I crossed a bridge on Highway 49 and saw a woman paddleboarding. What a cutie patootie. As I watched her I thought, ‘One day, that’ll be me.’ Years later, paddling toward that same bridge, I realized, Oh my gosh, I’m the cutie patootie. I’m doing it.

Here’s my gift to you: You don’t have to ride a bike across the country to have an extraordinary experience. Walk your neighborhood. Go to that movie. Eat at a restaurant by yourself. I once sat on a beach alone and cried because I was so uncomfortable. But I got to walk through it. In my own skin. 

I get on my knees, get grateful, ask who I can help today, and then I go.

Write it down. The universe goes to work.”

Regina