It’s been eight years since we lost “our Nick,” Nicky Hayden. What was once so raw, so painfully traumatic, is now real. A few years ago, my brain finally stopped randomly telling me that I hadn’t heard from him in a while—that I should call him—followed by the crash of cold realization.

I still occasionally send him text messages in the middle of the night, even though I have no idea who has the number now.

In a closet, I have a box of old interviews recorded on MiniDisc, many of them with Nicky. The audio quality is so good I can hear him breathing—and I always laugh when he does that mini-horse-laugh-sputter after I hit him with an unexpected “Dean question.” With headphones on, it’s like he’s right here.

As King Kenny Roberts said days after Nicky passed away, his death is a deep wound that all who knew him will carry for the rest of our lives. It may heal, but it will always be carried.

We must endeavor to persevere, as a man once said.

Peace out.