At the Top of the Ferris Wheel — A Small Ride, A Bigger Moment

I didn’t plan to find a carnival that day.

Monica and I were riding our Honda Navis to the shop for their 2,500-mile service — sticking to the slower roads, since these little bikes aren’t highway legal (which, honestly, I prefer). We had our Moman H2Pro intercoms in our helmets, chatting the whole way. That’s when I spotted it — tucked just off the road: a small local carnival setting up for the weekend.

I keyed up the intercom.
“What do you think about going later… and bringing your mom?”

A pause. Then her voice lit up. “Yes!”

Monica’s mom moved in with us back in 2020 during the lockdown, and she’s become a permanent part of our little family. She’s also been battling cancer these past few years — and responding well, thankfully. Moments like these, where the three of us can do something just for fun, feel increasingly important.

We pitched the idea to her when we got back from the shop. She lit up. Carnival? With the two of us? She was in.

That evening, the rain in the forecast held off just long enough for us to go.

We didn’t ride every ride, but we made the moments count. We had fresh-squeezed lemonade, a small snack, and Monica’s mom picked out a caramel candy apple — though she later admitted it tasted a bit stale (she told it with a laugh, so we laughed too). We rode the pirate ship that swings higher with each pass. And of course — the Ferris wheel.

While we were suspended at the top, I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture of Monica and me. We were smiling, the carnival lights glowing beneath us. That picture is now one of my favorites.

On the ride home, I made another suggestion — something I’ve been trying to get better at.
“How about Chinese food?”
We stopped by our local Chinese take-out restaurant (her mom’s favorite), and brought it home for dinner. It was simple, comforting, complete.

Looking back, the day wasn’t extraordinary in any flashy way. But in every quiet way that matters — it was.

I’ve often struggled with taking the lead. Not because I’m unwilling — but because I care deeply about getting it right. I want to give Monica what she wants without presuming. (And like many couples, we’ve played the “what do you want to eat?” game more times than I can count.)

But I’m learning that sometimes, the act of suggesting — of taking the initiative — is a way of showing love. Even if I’m unsure. Even if I silently say to myself, “Please let me be right.”

This story isn’t about the Ferris wheel, or the ride, or even the stale candy apple.

It’s about seeing an opportunity and turning it into a memory. About listening, showing up, and being present with the people you love.

Sometimes it’s motorcycles.
Sometimes it’s Linux.
And sometimes… it’s everything in between.