Razor shrugged. “Nobody’s taking that away from you. But everything has its season. Yours is over.”
They walked away, leaving me alone with my bike and fifty years of memories that suddenly felt hollow.
I had three choices: beg to stay, walk away with what dignity I had left, or do something to remind them who I really was. What the patch on my back really meant.
What I did next shocked not just my brothers, but every biker at Sturgis that year.
It started with a phone call to an old friend – someone I hadn’t spoken to in nearly twenty years.
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