They say you never forget the sound of your brother’s laugh when he’s flying down a hill at forty miles an hour, hands raised in the air like he’s on a rollercoaster, even if he can’t see a thing around him. For me, that laugh was a promise. A contract we made without words.

I’m Ryder, and Mason’s my younger brother by seventeen months. We grew up in a neighborhood where the lawns were patchy, the sidewalks were cracked, and the summers smelled like asphalt and barbecue smoke. Our childhood was noise—skateboards thumping off curbs, handlebars squeaking, Mom hollering about helmets we never wore. Mason could ollie before he could spell the word. I was more into speed than tricks, anything with wheels and no brakes. We were different but never apart.

That changed the day Mason lost his sight. It happened in three days. At first, blurry spots. Then shadows. Then just… nothing. He was fifteen. I was sixteen and angry in ways I couldn’t explain. Angry at our parents for pretending everything would be fine. Angry at doctors with their cautious words and zero solutions. Angry at Mason for pulling away from me when I needed to stay close. But mostly, I was angry at myself for not knowing how to fix any of it.

The bikes gathered dust. Mason’s world shrunk down to footsteps and tactile paving. He stopped laughing, and I stopped trying to make him. We coexisted, like ghosts of the kids we used to be.

Until one afternoon, I saw him sitting on the porch while our neighbor’s kids zoomed past on scooters. His face was still, like he didn’t even hear them. But I knew better. Mason had the kind of hearing that could pick up a bird landing on the mailbox. What he lacked was invitation.

That’s when the idea hit me.

I didn’t even ask permission. Just dragged a busted motorcycle frame I found on a salvage forum into Dad’s garage. I had no plan. No mechanical training beyond what YouTube could offer. All I knew was that Mason couldn’t ride behind me. That wouldn’t be right. He needed to feel beside me—equal. Always had been.

When I told him, he laughed, like a hollow echo of his old self. “You know I’m blind, right?”

“Exactly,” I said. “You don’t need to see to feel the ride.”

It took six months. I skipped school. Picked up part-time jobs for parts. Called in every favor I had. The frame had to be wide, strong enough for two engines—each with its own throttle. I reinforced the suspension. Designed a dual handlebar system that let Mason hold on and feel like he was steering, even if the control was mine. Mom threatened to call the police when I tested it in the backyard. I almost set the lawn on fire.

But the first time we rolled it out, painted jet black with matte silver trim, Mason ran his hands over the curves like he was reading a poem.

“Ready?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Just strapped on the helmet I’d customized with a built-in audio system. I hit the ignition. The engines roared like a dragon with two throats.

We took off.

That first ride wasn’t perfect. I nearly stalled at a stoplight. Mason almost puked on a speed bump. But that laugh? That full-belly, wild, unapologetic laugh?

It came back.

From then on, we were unstoppable.

Every weekend, we hit a new backroad. Mason memorized the curves by feel—he could tell a right bend from a left based on how my weight shifted beside him. I gave him an earpiece, and we narrated the world together. I’d describe clouds, trees, roadkill we barely missed. He’d narrate my emotions better than I could.

At gas stations, people stared. Some smiled. Others looked like they wanted to ask if we were part of some experimental therapy program. Mason never cared. He’d pull off his helmet, shake out his curls, and say, “You should try it blind. Really gives you a new perspective.”

Then one Tuesday, traffic hit us hard just outside Ridgewell.

It was a mess of brake lights, honking, and heat rising off the asphalt like a warning. We were crawling behind a minivan when a man in a silver BMW rolled down his window.

“Hey! That legal?” he shouted. “Looks dangerous.”

Mason turned toward the sound, grinning. “Only if you close your eyes, man.”

I laughed. The guy didn’t.

But the traffic gave me time to notice something weird. A woman three cars up was out of her sedan, arguing with a kid on a bicycle. The boy looked shaken, his front wheel bent. The driver looked furious. Nobody else moved.

I nudged Mason. “Something’s off. Kid looks scared.”

“You want to get involved?” he asked.

That’s the thing about Mason—he never hesitates to call out when I’m about to do something stupid. But he also never says no if I do it anyway.

I veered off the lane, hopped the curb, and rolled to a stop near the kid.

The woman, mid-thirties, power suit, red nails, looked at me like I was a cockroach. “Excuse me. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Seems like it might,” I said. “You okay, kid?”

He was maybe eleven, breathing hard, holding back tears.

“She says I hit her car,” he mumbled.

“I was parked, and he crashed into me,” the woman snapped.

“I swerved to avoid a dog,” he said. “I didn’t see the car until—”

“License and registration!” she barked at me suddenly.

I blinked. “Ma’am, I didn’t—”

“She’s bluffing,” Mason said calmly through the earpiece. “She’s scared of something.”

I caught it too—the way she kept checking her phone, glancing at the intersection like she was waiting for someone.

“Alright,” I said, backing off. “We’ll just sit over there. Watch.”

She cursed under her breath. Less than a minute later, she got back in her car and peeled off—without exchanging info, without even looking back.

The kid stood there, stunned.

“You okay?” I asked again.

He nodded. “Thanks. She said she was gonna call the cops. Said I was in trouble.”

“She’s the one who’d be,” Mason said. “Her bumper had no dent. And no one calls the cops that fast unless they’re hiding something.”

“Hey, what’s your name?” I asked the kid.

“Ty,” he said.

“You ride here a lot?”

“Yeah.”

I looked at Mason. He just nodded, already knowing what I was thinking.

“Come by on Saturday,” I told Ty. “Bring your bike. You ever ridden a dual-engine?”

His eyes widened. “No way.”

“Way,” Mason said.

That weekend, we added a third seat to the back. Just temporary. Welded it myself. Ty’s grin could’ve lit up the whole street. He rode with us for twenty minutes and never stopped laughing.

Now, a year later, we’ve got five custom bikes in the garage. One for veterans. One for a kid with cerebral palsy who lights up when the engine roars. One for a woman who lost her legs and said she’d never ride again. Mason runs the design side. I handle fabrication. We call it Ride With Me. No sidecars. No passengers. Always side by side.

Because everyone deserves to feel the wind. Even if they can’t see where it’s coming from.

Would you ride, even if you couldn’t see the road? Share if you would—and tag someone you’d want riding beside you.