(Editor's note - we recently came across Make Your Mark and it seems like a properly good thing. So we invited Michelle to give us some context. Over the next few weeks we'll tell the rest of the story between us. Oh, and links will take you outside of MBT into the big scary Internet. Not our fault what you find.)

There are moments in life when everything goes quiet—not peacefully so, but the kind of silence that screams in your ears. Mine came in the depths of the Forest of Dean - a place I call home, wrapped in darkness both outside and within. Yet, there was a time not too long ago when I found myself crushed by a weight I couldn’t lift: depression, grief, anxiety… it all came down like a curtain. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t even make tea without having to talk myself through it. Some nights, I sat on the cold kitchen floor staring into the void, tinnitus mocking me in the quiet. I was out of work, out of money, and worst of all, out of hope. But amid the numbness, one emotion fought its way through.

Hope. I hoped that I wouldn’t let myself become invisible. And from that came something else: determination.

When I was a child, my hero roared down the road on his Bantam, trailing a cloud of blue smoke and rebellion. My dad—an endurance racing driver from the 1960s—was fearless, quick-witted, and full of charm. His stories filled our home with tales of racing at Mallory Park, delivering telegrams on a motorbike for the Post Office, and having a drink with Peter Sellers (who, for the record, answered the door with a toilet seat around his neck). But my mother always said bikes weren’t for girls. Too dangerous. Too fast. Too wild. So I grew up behind a desk, not a handlebar. It wasn’t until I was 51 that I finally found my way back to that dream. And not just because I wanted the thrill. I needed saving, and something told me two wheels might be my way out. So I did what any emotionally fried, slightly impulsive person would do: I walked into a showroom one dull Sunday afternoon, and within half an hour, put down a deposit on a bike I hadn’t even sat on.

When that bike arrived—off the back of a van—I stood staring at it, helmet in hand, heart racing. Could I really do this? Me, then 52, with trembling hands and a mountain of fear? Yes. Because I had to. That first ride didn’t heal me. But it cracked open a door. And each subsequent ride has helped push it wider. Motorcycling has become my therapy. It’s how I breathe. How I fight back. When the visor goes down, I’m no longer the person who felt like she was falling apart—I’m my father’s daughter. Confident. Bold. Full throttle. My Ninja 125cc might not turn heads like Dad’s Bantam once did (although it is entirely black and not Kawasaki green), but it turns something on in me. With my body low on the tank, I feel alive. I feel powerful. I feel like I belong. Every ride connects me back to my dad—his voice in my head reminding me: “Hard left, Shell. Change down. Lift your head so you can see where you’re going, not what you’re afraid of.” Those words, his wisdom, his grit—they live in me now. I ride for him. I ride for the younger me who stood at the gate watching him disappear in blue smoke. I ride for everyone who told them they shouldn’t, couldn’t, or mustn’t. And yes—I still have dark days. Days when the weight creeps back in. But now I have something more substantial. My bike. My road. My courage.

But I haven’t done this alone. I found Make Your MARK, a mental health charity supporting motorcyclists like me. Their Motorbike Acts of Random Kindness (MARK) showed me a community I didn’t know I needed. One of their best initiatives? Bike n Brew—a passport trail where riders visit participating cafés, collect stamps, raise funds for mental health, and connect with each other. I’ve met incredible people, had tearful conversations in lay-bys, laughed until I ached over coffee and cake, and found my tribe. Through Facebook groups, charity rides, and just turning up at bike meets, I’ve discovered I’m not alone. And neither are you. This year I wrote Full Throttle Full Heart—a guidebook for learners and returners everywhere who want to discover motorcycling not just as a hobby, but as a lifeline. It’s for the 16-year-old dreaming of their first ride, and the 60-year-old daring to rediscover themselves. It’s for anyone who’s been told they “can’t.” I’m telling you now: You absolutely can. It’s not just about speed. It’s about freedom. Ownership. Rebellion. Healing. Community. If you’ve ever felt broken, lost, unseen—remember this: you were born to ride. Maybe not today. Perhaps not this year. But someday. And when you do, I’ll be cheering you on from the next café down the road. Because the journey is never over. The road just bends. And each bend holds a chance to come home to yourself again.

So here I am: 53, stubborn, fearless, sometimes fragile—but never giving up. And when I’m out there, leaning into the corners with wind in my jacket, I feel my dad beside me. I see the Bantam’s blue smoke ahead. And I ride towards it. Because that’s where healing lives. To all the brave riders out there, whatever your journey, ride safe, ride strong, and don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t. The road is waiting. So are we.

Read more in Full Throttle Full Heart, available now in paperback on Amazon. Let it ride with you in your pocket.

Your story starts here. https://www.fullthrottlefullheart.com/