From Two Wheels to Three - A One Split Second Story

For most of my life, riding meant two wheels. That feeling of leaning into corners, reading the road, and experiencing every mile directly became part of who I was. Motorcycles weren’t just transport; they were freedom, routine, escape, challenge, and sometimes therapy.

Like many riders, I believed riding was defined by the machine. Two wheels. Balance. Tradition. I never imagined that one day my journey would lead somewhere different.

That change came later in life. By then I was married, had children who were beginning to leave the nest, and life seemed to be moving into its next stage.

Then I became ill. Like a lot of men, I convinced myself I’d be fine. Just give it time. Keep going. Keep working. How wrong I was.

I carried on, ignored the signs, and didn’t seek help. At the same time, my marriage was failing and the pain was becoming impossible to ignore. I kept pushing through until one day my son noticed something I had tried to overlook - two huge bruises around my spleen area. He called the doctor. From that moment, life changed.

What followed was a nightmare of appointments, tests, examinations, hospital stays, waiting, uncertainty, and answers I never wanted to hear. Eventually, after countless investigations, they finally got to the bottom of it.

I was diagnosed with two autoimmune diseases - one relatively common and one very rare. In a short space of time, everything changed. I lost my job. My marriage ended.

And perhaps something that sounds small to some people but felt enormous to me - I was told I couldn’t ride motorcycles anymore. For someone who had built so much of their identity around riding, that hit harder than I expected. It wasn’t just losing a hobby. It felt like losing part of myself.

The move to three wheels didn’t happen overnight. At first, I resisted the idea completely. Part of me questioned whether it was still 'real' riding. Three wheels felt like admitting defeat.

But life has a way of changing the route whether you agree with it or not. Slowly, I started looking at things differently. Maybe this wasn’t about giving something up. Maybe it was about finding another way forward.

Whether it was practicality, confidence, adapting to my health, or simply refusing to let illness take away something I loved, I began to see three wheels not as the end of riding - but as a continuation of it.

The more I looked into it, the more I believed I could do it. So, I searched and searched until I found my first trike - a Yamaha Midnight Star 950. I was excited like my kids at Christmas.

And trust me on this one - you can’t just jump on a trike and ride like you used to. It doesn’t work like that. It’s different from anything you’ve ever ridden - or driven, for that matter. So, I took my time. Short rides. Quiet roads. Learning all over again. Until I was ready.

The first proper ride surprised me. It felt different. Not better. Not worse. Just different.

I had to unlearn habits built over the years. Cornering changed. The connection to the road changed. The rhythm changed. But something important stayed exactly the same: the reason I rode.

The quiet moments. The open roads. The feeling of leaving ordinary life behind for a while. The sense that no matter what was happening elsewhere, I could still put on my gear and go. That feeling hadn’t disappeared. It had simply found a new shape.

What I eventually realised was that riding was never about the number of wheels. It was about movement. It was about freedom. It was about continuing the journey, even when life forces you onto a different road than the one you planned.

Three wheels didn’t replace my life on two wheels. They became the next chapter of it.

And if there’s one thing this road has taught me, it’s this: There’s no single right way to ride. Only your way.

So, my final words are for all you two - wheeled riders out there:

When you see a motorcycle-based trike, don’t dismiss the rider as someone who couldn’t hack it on two wheels. Because there just might be a real biker sitting there - someone who has ridden through life, taken a few hits, adapted, and is still finding a way to do what they love.

And in the end, isn’t that what riding has always been about?

Ride safe, Paul - One Split Second.