I nodded and mumbled something about thinking about it, but inside, my pride was bleeding out faster than when I’d taken buckshot in ’86.
That night, I sat alone outside my tent, watching younger riders roar past with their perfect tattoos and store-bought “vintage” leather that had never seen real weather. I rubbed my aching knees – the right one rebuilt after a crash in ’79, the left one wearing out from compensating all these years.
My weathered hands traced the patches on my cut – each one earned through blood, sweat, and miles that these kids couldn’t imagine. The “Original” patch I’d worn since 1973. The memorial patches for thirteen brothers who never made it home. The faded colors that had seen rain, snow, and desert sun across all forty-eight continental states.
I’d started riding when motorcycles were dangerous machines for dangerous men, not fashion accessories with satellite navigation and heated grips. When breaking down meant you fixed it yourself or you didn’t get home. When brotherhood meant something sacred.
Now I was a relic. A ghost from another time.
The next morning, as I struggled to pack my gear, Razor approached with several of the younger members.
