Facing Fear on Two Wheels
It was October 2025.
My wife was heavily pregnant, and I had just signed on with a New Zealand startup in Melbourne.
That decision meant leaving behind a dream we had carefully built in Raglan NZ and stepping into something vastly different city life. A new country, a new rhythm, and a new kind of exposure.
My wife tells everyone I work for the world’s coolest company making two wheel machines. And honestly, I believe her. I’d landed my dream job, but not without first facing something I’d been quietly avoiding: getting my licence to ride and getting out on some of the busiest roads in the world.
My Biggest Cheerleader
If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that my wife is my biggest cheerleader. She didn’t grow up riding. In fact, she only learned to ride a bicycle at the age of 26, and fast forward a few years she spotted the street dog for the first time. It was love at first sight.
I still remember that sunny Raglan morning outside Indy’s Café. Three or four Streetdogs were parked up, their nostalgic lines and quiet confidence almost begging to be ridden. Nerves and all, she gave it a go. With Michelle’s calm encouragement and belief, she climbed on and rode.
From that moment on, there was love in the air.
A Different Relationship With Bikes
My story is a little different.
Motorbikes, and push bikes, have always been part of who I am. Growing up on a farm, riding dirt bikes was second nature. Those early years gave me confidence and a deep sense of connection with being on two wheels, something that never really leaves you. But confidence as a kid doesn’t mean fear disappears later in life.
At 46, with a young family, riding on two wheels takes on a different weight. Let’s be honest, riding on the road is vulnerable. You’re exposed. Surrounded by large moving objects. Tram tracks. Blind spots. Unpredictable moments.
These were the thoughts that woke me in the middle of the night as I asked myself a very real question: Should I take this job?
Fear as a Teacher
Fear has an interesting way of controlling us.
If it wasn’t for my background in teaching mindfulness, I probably would have chosen a safer, less risky path. But I kept coming back to a simple question: What is a life lived without risk?
One of the guiding principles of mindfulness I often return to is the acronym COAL:
Curiosity
Openness
Acceptance
Love
Rather than pushing fear away, COAL invites us to befriend it, to listen to what it’s trying to tell you.
Fear wasn’t wrong. It wanted to keep me safe. But running away wasn’t the only option.
Meeting Fear Head-On
When I truly confronted it, I could feel fear clearly in my body.
A tight, heavy sensation in my chest.
A knot sitting deep in my stomach.
Real thoughts of dying on two wheels, not abstract, but vivid.
And yet, I’ve always believed fear can be softened through education.
If I was going to take this emotional energy seriously, and stay alive out there on the road, I needed to learn. To skill up. To respect the risk without being paralysed by it.
And that’s when I met Brett.
Learning in the Heat
The team at FTN must have had a fair bit of faith in me, they gave me the job knowing full well I didn’t yet have a motorcycle licence.
For the next two days of the course, the forecast was 39 degrees.
Welcome to Australia, land of the scorching sun.
To make it even more character-building, the rules were clear: no skin showing during training. Full gear. No exceptions.
Armstrong’s handled this well, with fatigue management high on the agenda. Brett was constantly balancing the load, moving us between classroom and track in roughly hourly intervals to keep minds sharp and bodies safe.
The heat itself wasn’t entirely foreign to me. Time spent in the Northern Territory, Asia, and the Middle East had taught me a few survival tricks. My go-to move was simple: into the bathroom, flannelette shirt and hat off, soaked in cold water, wrung out, then back on. As mad as it sounds, the airflow created enough convection to keep me alert and coherent.
Meeting Brett
More importantly, meeting Brett put many of my fears at ease.
He was our instructor, a classic, salt-of-the-earth Aussie. For Brett, a spade is a spade. No fluff. No ego. Just honesty and experience. I loved that about him.
His teaching was inspiring. I remember leaning in as he spoke about his 40 years of riding motorcycles, not as a boast, but with genuine joy. He made the first two days exciting. He didn’t sugar-coat the danger. The fear was real, but it was manageable.
With the right techniques, presence, and respect for the road, survival wasn’t about luck. It was about skill and awareness.
Two days of deeply worthwhile training later, I had my learner’s licence.
And now, the rubber hit the road.
Dreaming Into Action
Excited, but cautious.
Nervous, but ready.
I unveiled the FTN Streetdog 80 from storage. It was Christmas Eve, and I made a quiet promise to myself: when I woke up in the morning, my dream ride would be sitting there in the garage.
Thank you, Santa, also known as FTN.
Getting the bike from Abbotsford to Thornbury was its own challenge. Everything done for the first time carries a level of presence you never forget.
I noticed my breath immediately, short, shallow, heightened. A little like Darth Vader in the helmet, but less theatrical and more revealing. My body wasn’t in its natural state of comfort.
At the traffic lights, I consciously relaxed. Longer exhales. Slowing everything down. Honouring the experience, and the very real risk of being out there, surrounded by tonnes of moving metal.
This wasn’t fear running the show anymore.
This was awareness.
A New Relationship
Since lifting the garage door on Christmas Day, the Streetdog and I have been slowly getting to know one another.
The fear hasn’t disappeared, it’s simply changed form. What once felt sharp and overwhelming has diluted into something steadier: deep respect. Respect for the road. Respect for the machine. Respect for my own limits. The Streetdog surprises me every day. It’s quick, nimble, and a whole lot of fun. There’s something surreal about riding an electric motorcycle. It feels like you’ve harnessed the wind, like you’re genuinely in union with nature. There’s no sound. No vibration. Just motion.
I’ll be sitting alongside cars burning fuel, rattling away with thousands of moving parts, while the thing I’m straddling feels clean, green, and somehow more true. It draws something out of me. It makes me want more, not speed, but connection.
Three Connections
I like to believe we are connected to three things: ourselves, others, and nature. When we’re aware of this, and in harmony with all three, life simply feels good.
The connection to self is the feedback the Streetdog gives us. It makes us feel alive. It allows emotion, energy in motion, to move through the body. Presence sharpens. Sensation returns.
Then there’s the connection to others.
If you want to make friends, buy a Streetdog. People genuinely love it, and they’re not shy about letting you know. There’s a natural sense of community around it, one that values art, design, and purpose. Values-driven, not ego-driven.
Even when I’m stationary at the lights, I notice heads turning. Other riders roll past and I’ll get a nod or a thumbs up. The stoke factor is real, and it’s hard to quantify the value of those moments of recognition.
Connection to Nature
The Streetdog demands vulnerability.
On the bike, you feel the temperature. The rain. The wind. Whatever the day, or nature, decides to bring. It isn’t always comfortable, but it is honest. And it is connection.
This sense of connection can be practised moment by moment by returning to COAL curiosity, openness, acceptance, and love.
When we close down, becoming resistant or reactive, our personal power slips away. We remain stuck in a reality shaped by rigid belief systems rather than lived experience.
Duality takes over. Connection evaporates. Intelligence diminishes and wisdom is lost.
On the road, connection isn’t optional.
Being fully present offers a real chance of survival. Switch off. Daydream. Drift, and it’s all over.
As Brett reminded us, we’re not in a car. There’s no climate control, no music cocoon, no heated seats or insulation from consequence.
On a motorcycle, we are nature.
One with the elements.
Present, alert, and ready to move with whatever the moment delivers.
Choosing the Streetdog
As a busy dad, I’m constantly looking for ways to integrate the Streetdog into everyday life. My wife will say, “There’s no milk in the fridge,” and a simple chore quietly becomes, I’ll take care of that.
I don’t give much away about the sheer joy I feel as I return with a few staples tucked under my arm.
It’s made me reflect on whether the Streetdog is really for me.
As a commuter, it ticks so many boxes. And yet, living in Melbourne, I’m surrounded by one of the most functional public transport systems in the world. Trams, trains, buses, all for no more than ten dollars a day. Family-friendly. Free on weekends. Metro trains even allow dogs, which means my loyal border collie, Bosco, can come to work with me.
And then there are the cycleways, those beautiful paths hugging Merri Creek and the Yarra River. Quiet, green corridors through the city. I’ve shared those rides with my son, him perched on the back of the bike, moving together at a pace that allows conversation and curiosity.
There’s something deeply grounding about that. It’s not about getting somewhere fast, it’s about being together while you do.
The Streetdog, for now, is different. A solo experience. I have to wait until he’s eight before he can ride on the back, and I know that day will come.
But still, when I reflect on public transport, a part of me feels like a sheep on a grid, efficient, directed, predictable.
The Streetdog feels different. A little rebellious. Like it breaks the rules, or at least the feeling of restriction.
When I ride it, I feel free.
Now, with a newborn, little Grace, six weeks old, and a four-year-old, Ruben, it’s not always my first choice of transport. Responsibility reshuffles priorities.
But when I get the chance?
I choose the Streetdog. Every time.
