I first noticed the Glimmer on Instagram. Some psych account talking about things that are the opposite of triggers. Little moments that light you up instead of shut you down. It stuck with me, burrowed deep.

Now I’m on my bike, part of a Saturday morning pack, a dozen of us winding through twisting mountain roads. 

I’m searching for glimmers, those flashes of joy in the ordinary. They come easier on two wheels, when the world blurs at the edges and every sense is alive.

A glance in my mirror – a string of headlights, my riding buddies in formation. Glimmer.

We sweep through a small town. Kids on the sidewalk stop and stare, eyes wide. One boy waves frantically, grinning ear to ear. We rev our engines in response. His excitement is infectious. Glimmer.

The road ahead curves, a perfect arc hugging the hillside. We lean as one, a choreographed dance of metal and rubber. The g-force tugs at my gut, a reminder I’m alive. Glimmer.

I notice each moment, savor it. But my eyes stay dry. No tears of joy, even as the glimmers pile up. It used to bother me, this lack of visible emotion. Not anymore.

I feel it all – the camaraderie, the freedom, the pure exhilaration of the ride. It doesn’t need to spill over to be real.

The group thunders on. More bends in the road. 

A car ahead sees us coming, eases over. The driver flashes a peace sign as we roar past. A dozen hands shoot up in thanks. Connection. Respect. Glimmer.

Dry-eyed but full-hearted, I twist the throttle. The bike responds, eager for more. And so am I.