I spent forty years building the Riders of Thunder motorcycle club from nothing. My blood was in every mile of asphalt we’d claimed. Then overnight, they voted me out and stole my 1947 Knucklehead – the bike I rode to my wife’s funeral, the one I promised her would never leave our family. They thought…
I woke up from heart surgery to discover my best friend of 40 years had emptied my garage. Six vintage motorcycles gone. Bikes I’d restored with my own hands over decades. The 1947 Indian Chief my father left me. The 1969 Triumph Bonneville I rode across the country with my wife before cancer took her….
Alright, old-timers, for those of you scratching your heads over that sweet piece of Milwaukee iron you saw making the rounds on Facebook, here’s your answer: You’re looking at a 1979 Harley Davidson FXS Blackline Shovelhead. And boy, what a beauty she is. Taking a Trip Down Memory Lane The late ’70s were interesting times…
I’ve been staring at my black suit for an hour now. Tomorrow is Mike’s funeral, and I still don’t know if I should go. His widow Sarah’s words keep ringing in my ears: “If you hadn’t convinced him to take that ride, he’d still be alive!” The phone rings. It’s Dave, another member of our…
The wind whipped through my thinning hair as I leaned into the curve. My Harley purred beneath me, a sound as familiar as my own heartbeat. I’d been riding for over four decades, but today felt different. Today was my 60th birthday, and I had a promise to keep. I pulled into Jake’s Diner, our…
The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the sterile hospital room. I sat there, my weathered hands clasped tightly, watching my son’s chest rise and fall with each mechanical breath. It had been three days since the crash, and Jake still hadn’t opened his eyes. A soft knock on the…