We Ride Even When Alone
- Sean Kelley
- Jun 29
- 9 min read
The Crash – A Turning Point
It was one of those Florida mornings where it actually felt good to get outside, rare in the dead of summer. Down here, the heat hits like a wall, and summer is like winter up north. It keeps most of us inside under the A/C or sitting at the bar wondering if we should’ve bought a boat or a jet ski instead of a motorcycle.
I usually don’t ride my dirt bike solo, especially not way out in the Ocala National Forest. But it’s tough to find guys who are into all of it like I am, track, street, and dirt. Most of my crew sticks to the asphalt, and I get it. Riding in Florida’s sugar sand is a full-body workout, and it’s not for everyone.
I had plans to ride that morning with a friend, but he had truck trouble the night before. I thought about skipping it, but I needed to get out and clear my head. I’ve ridden Wandering Wiregrass more times than I can count, solo and with a crew, so while I knew I’d be alone, I wasn’t too worried. I said a quick prayer like I always do before hitting the trails, asked for some protection, and set off without any plan to push hard. Just wanted to ride.
The conditions were actually perfect. We’d had some rain, and I headed out early before the heat cranked up. I found myself on a few new trails I hadn’t explored before, heading east down the powerline. I was looking for a landmark on the map, Shockley Cemetery, but ended up finding something else. There was a small hill, which always gets my attention out here since Florida’s pretty flat. I stopped, took some photos, and cracked my first water. I was stoked on this new fender pack I’d installed, perfect spot to stash water, phone, and keys without having a backpack bouncing around on my neck.
When I checked my phone, I realized I’d blown past the cemetery but saw another point of interest on the map, a lone gravestone for someone named Jeremiah M. Brewer, tucked out in the woods. I followed the trail and found it. Just one headstone, way out there. Turns out Jeremiah was a soldier buried there since 1877.
I’d gone pretty deep at that point, so I decided to head back toward the truck. I figured I’d make a pit stop, grab another water, and maybe go back out again. I was working my way back, following the trails back toward the powerline and the trailhead.
About a quarter mile from the truck, I wasn’t even riding that hard. Usually, I open it up a bit in that section, it’s straight, wide, and has a mix of hardpack, whoops, and sugar sand. But that day, I was cruising. Not pushing it. Just flowing.
Then it happened.
My front tire kicked hard to the right, then to the left, and in a split second I remember thinking clear as day: “I’m going down.”
I don’t remember being in the air or the landing, just waking up flat on my back, staring at the sky, gasping for air.
“You just got the wind knocked out of you,” I told myself. “Breathe. You’re fine.”
But I wasn’t fine. Every breath hurt like hell, and I could tell something wasn’t right. I laid there grunting, trying to keep my cool, but it was clear, this wasn’t just a bruised rib or a sore shoulder.
I tried to roll over. Bad idea. The pain was brutal. So I just laid there thinking I’d bounce back in a few minutes. I told myself I’d get back to the truck, load the bike, and drive to the hospital.
Amazing how we lie to ourselves in moments like that.
I managed to roll onto my knees, resting my head on the bike seat. The bars were buried in the sand, and gas was dripping from the overflow. I figured if I could lift it up, I could lean on it and maybe start moving.
I grabbed the seat and pulled.
Nope. That wasn’t happening. That’s when it hit me: “I’m in real trouble.”
I laid back in the sand and looked up the trail. My new fender pack, the one I was so pumped about, had flown off mid-crash and was about 50 feet away. I thought, Okay, it’s Saturday, someone else will be riding. I’ll wave them down, have them grab my key, and help me out. Still fooling myself.
I laid there for what felt like 30 or 40 minutes. I could hear bikes off in the distance. Every time I heard one, I’d raise my arm. But in the forest, a bike can sound close when it’s actually a mile away. And just like that… gone.
Then the ants showed up. Crawling on me, biting. I knew I had to move.
I dug deep, flipped to my stomach, and crawled to my pack. That crawl felt like it took everything I had left. At first, I was thinking I’d call my wife. But by the time I got there, I knew better.
I needed to call 911.
I had cell service, somehow. I made the call. The dispatcher had trouble locking in my location, and I couldn’t talk well, every breath was shallow and sharp. But I was familiar with the area and told her, “I’m about a quarter mile in, under the powerline, just off the Wandering Wiregrass trailhead.”
She stayed with me on the line, updating me as help got closer.
“I can hear the sirens now,” I told her.
Within 15 minutes, they were at the trailhead. Getting in to reach me was another story. After some back and forth, the crew decided to drive in. Thank God they did. Being carried out would’ve been a nightmare.
They reached me, braced my neck, cut away my jersey, and assessed the damage. Boots, chest protector, jersey, all left behind.
Then came the call I’d been dreading.
My wife.
“Hey babe… don’t freak out, but I’m going in an ambulance.”
She didn’t believe me at first. “Sean, don’t be an ass. I know you’re joking.”
I couldn’t even respond. The emotion finally hit. I handed the phone to the medic.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, “we’re with your husband. He’s okay, but we’re taking him to the hospital.”
They slid the board under me and loaded me up. The team had to carefully plan how to get out without getting stuck, but once they figured it out, we were gone.
My bike, my gear, my pride, all left behind in the sand.
But I was alive. The closest trauma center was in Sanford 55 minutes away so I was headed home.
Just not the way I thought I’d get there.
The Aftermath – Why We Ride Together
I finally arrived at the hospital and didnt see them because I was strapped to a stretcher but no surprise my family was there waiting for me. Kelsey, Bella and Greyson, I teared up when I saw them over me in the emergency room and took a brief moment to thank God for all that I have.
I was so thirsty and remember I was on my way back to my vehicle on the trail to get more water when this happened now all I wanted was a drink of water. That’s it. The nurse shook her head and said, “Not until the doctor sees you. In case they need to rush you into surgery.”
The pain had gone from bad to unbearable. Whatever they gave me in the ambulance had started to wear off, and it was clear they’d maxed out what they could give me on the way. They tried to ease it with another dose, but it barely touched the edges. I just wanted to lean over and get the weight off my back, but every time I tried, the nurse would rush over “You need to stay on your back and stay still.” No one knew yet if there was damage to my neck or spine, so they weren’t taking chances.
But man... my back was on fire.
And yet, I knew the meds had done something, because I felt just good enough in the ambulance to snap a selfie. A stupid little moment of levity in the middle of chaos.
Word started to spread quickly. My phone lit up with messages. One of the first to reach me in person was Ram — a close friend and a doctor at another local hospital. He dropped everything to come check in. By then I’d already been through a full round of scans — CT, X-rays, MRI. Ram looked them over and called a neurosurgeon he knew personally. The early opinion? Maybe I’d lucked out. It might not require surgery. But we’d have to wait for the neurosurgeon from the hospital to make the call.
That wait ended up being 26 more hours.
But in the meantime, help started pouring in.
Kevin and Dawn — two longtime friends — called as soon as they heard what happened.
“What can we do?”
My wife passed along the offer. And even though I hated to ask, there was one big problem: my bike and all my gear were still out there in the forest.
Without hesitation, they stepped up. They drove out to the trails, saw the scene of the crash, and didn’t blink. It started pouring rain, Florida style, but that didn’t stop them. Dawn got on my bike and rode it through the sand back to the trailhead. They loaded it up on my trailer, unhooked it, and brought it back to the house.
Then, without skipping a beat, they turned around and went back out again to pick up my car. The key had been with me in the ambulance, tucked safely into the only thing I still had with me: my trusty fender pack.
Dawn told me later that the KTM fired up with a single push of the button, electric start never felt more heroic.
So let’s look at this.
A doctor friend stepped in on his own time, made calls to a neurosurgeon, and gave me hope when I needed it most. Two friends spent an entire day driving to Ocala, twice, in the pouring rain to rescue my gear and my pride. Meanwhile, my phone was flooded with messages, people checking in, offering help, sending love.
This... is the bike community.
This is why we ride. Not just for the adrenaline, or the freedom, or the machines, but for each other.
When one of us goes down, the whole crew shows up. And in that hospital bed, hurting and unsure what came next, I started to see it clearly:
This was more than a crash. This was a wake-up call.
The Shift – A New Chapter
It’s been a week since the crash.
The bruises are still fresh, the pain is still there, but something deeper has started to settle in peace, perspective, maybe even purpose.
The calls, the texts, the visits, the prayers especially my family and all of my wife, Kelseys, sacrifices and holding in her urge to tell me how worried she was and how stupid I am for riding by myself. all of it helped carry me through. Every message, every “you good?” or “whatever you need,” patched me up in ways no doctor could. That kind of love doesn’t just come from nowhere. That’s community. That’s family. That’s the soul of this 73 Moto tribe.
I’ve spent the past few days doing what I never make enough time for, sitting still. Thinking. Praying. Reflecting.
This wasn’t just a crash. It was a page turning. A chapter closing. And a new one opening wide.
With the all-new Ace Cafe about to open, it’s hard not to feel like this was symbolic, like something bigger was at work. It leaves me wondering: do we create our own reality sometimes without meaning to? We pray for change, we ask for our path to shift, we ask God to intervene… but maybe we’re not paying attention to the signs. Maybe we’re not following the trail markers. And maybe, sometimes, it takes a hard jolt, or a big crash, to shake us awake.
That’s what this feels like.
I’ve been praying for clarity. For direction. For some kind of shift. I didn’t expect it to come from the dirt, but maybe that’s exactly what I needed. God answered, not with a whisper, but with a wake-up call.
And He didn’t just show up. He showed up through people.
A few days after the crash, I made it to the 73 Moto meetup, back brace and all. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but what I walked into hit me hard in the best way.
People didn’t just say hello. They said, “Can I hug you?” And then they did, gently, carefully, wrapping their arms around me like they meant it. And they did. Sara came up and told me how scared she’d been when she heard. Gordon, Peter, Deb, Ashley, so many others, stopped everything to listen, to check on me, to offer help. I had the chance to share the story in person, standing there surrounded by people who genuinely cared. It was overwhelming in the most beautiful way.
And it hasn’t stopped.
Tomorrow, David is bringing us dinner, just because. Just to help. And I know more help will come, because that’s who this community is. This is what it means to ride with people who live with heart.
This is why we ride.
This is why we build.
Not just for the bikes. Not just for the speed. But for the connection. For the meaning. For the reminder that we’re never doing this alone, not the riding, not the crashing, not the rebuilding.
So yeah, this is a new chapter. Maybe one I planned for, maybe one planned for me. But one I’m walking into with open eyes, a grateful heart, and a little more faith in the road ahead.
Because even when the trail gets rough, I know now, without a doubt, I’m on the right path.
And I’ve got the right people riding with me. 73 MoTo 🏁
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