The Doctor Gave Me Three Years Before I Forget How To Ride

“You need to stop riding, Mr. Henderson. Immediately.” Five words from a doctor in a white coat, and just like that, I received the death sentence every lifelong biker fears more than the crash itself.

I never thought I’d be afraid of forgetting how to ride, but when they diagnosed me with early-onset Alzheimer’s at 68, the first thing I feared losing wasn’t my name or my memories – it was the feeling of wind against my face and the rumble of my Harley beneath me.

The doctor’s words still echoed in my mind as I sat in my garage that night, staring at my 1985 Low Rider in the dim light. “Progressive cognitive decline… likely three to seven years before advanced symptoms… should consider stopping high-risk activities…”

I ran my weathered hand along the gas tank, feeling the chips and scratches that told the story of forty-five years on the road. Each dent was a memory – that time in Sturgis when a drunk knocked it over, the hailstorm in Montana, the day my grandson sat on it for the first time.

Would I forget these stories? Would I forget how to ride? How to change my oil? How to find my way home?

My fingers trembled slightly as I reached for the key hanging on the wall. Not from age – at 68, I was still strong enough to wrench on my own bike – but from the fear crawling through my veins. Fear was something new to me. In Vietnam, I’d faced death without blinking. I’d ridden through blizzards and blazing heat. I’d survived three crashes that should have killed me.

But this enemy was different. This one would take me piece by piece.

I started the bike, the familiar rumble vibrating through my bones. For now, at least, I remembered how this felt. For now, I was still me.

But for how long?

The next morning, I called the one person I knew would understand.

“Ray,” I said when he answered, “I need to talk.”

Ray had been my riding buddy for forty years. We’d crossed the country together more times than I could count. If anyone would understand what I was facing, it would be him.

An hour later, his Electra Glide rumbled into my driveway. Even at 72, Ray looked like the same tough bastard I’d met at a rally in ’78. Gray beard longer, face more lined, but the same steel in his eyes.

“You look like shit, Cal,” he said as he removed his helmet.

I forced a smile. “Good to see you too, brother.”

We sat in lawn chairs in my garage, beers in hand despite the early hour. I told him everything the doctor had said, watched his face darken as the weight of it sank in.

“Jesus, Cal,” he muttered when I finished. “What are you gonna do?”

I stared at my bike. “Doc says I should stop riding soon. Says when the confusion starts, it won’t be safe.”

Ray snorted. “Since when have we given a damn about safe?”

“This is different. It’s not just about me going down. I could hurt someone else.”

He was quiet for a long moment, sipping his beer. “So that’s it? You’re gonna let this thing take riding from you?”

“What choice do I have?”

Ray set his beer down with a thud. “You’ve got plenty of choice. You could cry about it, or you could make the most of the time you’ve got left.”

“And then what? Wait to forget my own name? Have my grandkids visit some old man who doesn’t recognize them?”

Ray leaned forward, pointing a finger at my chest. “Listen to me. My father had the same thing. Took him five years from diagnosis to the end. Know what his biggest regret was? Not doing the things he loved while he still could. He spent his last good years afraid of what was coming instead of living what he had left.”

I looked away, his words cutting too deep.

“You’ve still got time, Cal,” Ray continued, his voice softer now. “Maybe not as much as you wanted, but enough to do something that matters.”

“Like what?”

A slow smile spread across his weathered face. “Remember that map we made back in ’85? All the roads we said we’d ride someday?”

I nodded. In our younger days, Ray and I had outlined a route across America, hitting every legendary motorcycle road we’d heard about but never ridden. Life, kids, jobs – they’d all gotten in the way.

“That map’s still in my garage,” Ray said. “Still has all those roads we never got to.”

I shook my head. “That was a young man’s dream, Ray.”

“Bullshit. That was a rider’s dream. Last I checked, we’re still riders.”

He stood and walked to his bike, returning with a worn leather map case. Inside was a yellowed road atlas, lines drawn in red marker connecting points across the country. Names were scribbled in the margins – Tail of the Dragon, Going-to-the-Sun Road, Highway 1…

“One last ride,” Ray said. “All the roads we missed. Before you can’t remember them anymore.”

“I don’t know if I can,” I admitted, hating the weakness in my voice.

Ray’s hand gripped my shoulder. “Better to go out riding than sitting in a care facility not knowing which way is up. You’ve got a choice about how you spend these last good years, brother. Make it count.”

After he left, I sat alone for a long time, staring at that map and thinking about time. We never have as much as we think we do, but my clock was ticking louder now.

I didn’t sleep that night. Instead, I pulled out old photo albums – rides with Ray and other brothers now gone, pictures of my late wife Sharon on the back of my first Shovelhead, snapshots from rallies and roadside stops across four decades.

By morning, I’d made my decision.

---

My son David didn’t take it well.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, pacing my living room. “You’re going to get on a motorcycle and ride across the country after being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s?”

“That’s the plan,” I replied calmly.

“Dad, be reasonable. You need to be preparing for what’s coming. Looking at care facilities, getting your affairs in order.”

“I’ve got time for that later.”

“No, you don’t!” His voice cracked. “That’s the whole point. You don’t have the luxury of time anymore.”

I looked at my son – forty years old now, responsible, always doing the right thing. Just like his mother. Sharon would have agreed with him, would have wanted me safe and sound.

But Sharon was gone, and soon, piece by piece, I would be too.

“David,” I said quietly. “I’ve spent my whole life playing by the rules. Worked the same job for thirty years. Paid my taxes. Raised you right. The one freedom I’ve always had was the road. If I’ve only got a few good years left, I’m not spending them waiting to disappear.”

“What if something happens to you out there?” His eyes were damp now. “What if you get confused and can’t find your way back?”

I stood and put my hands on his shoulders. “Then I’ll have lived exactly the way I wanted until the end. And that’s more than most people get.”

He shook his head, but I could see resignation setting in. “You’ve always been stubborn.”

“Got that from your grandmother.” I smiled, then felt a chill as I realized I couldn’t quite remember her face. Was it starting already? “David, I need you to understand. This disease is going to take everything from me. My memories. My independence. In the end, even my dignity. But it doesn’t get to take this. Not without a fight.”

Two days later, David returned with a small black box. “If you’re really doing this,” he said, handing it to me, “then take this with you.”

Inside was a GPS tracker with an emergency button. “It’s connected to my phone,” he explained. “I’ll always know where you are. And if you press this button, it alerts me and 911 with your exact location.”

I started to protest, but the worry in his eyes stopped me. “Fair enough,” I said, pocketing the device. “But don’t expect me to use it.”

---

Ray and I left on a clear Tuesday morning in late April. Our bikes were packed light – just the essentials for a journey we estimated would take three months if we didn’t rush. The old map was sealed in a waterproof case, mounted to my handlebars where I could see it.

David and his family came to see us off. My granddaughter Emma, eight years old and fearless, hugged me tight.

“Bring me something from every state, Grandpa,” she whispered.

“I promise,” I told her, wondering if I’d remember the promise. I’d started keeping a journal, writing down important things each night so I wouldn’t forget. Emma’s request went on the first page.

As we pulled away, I caught David’s expression – a mixture of fear, resignation, and something that might have been understanding. I nodded to him, hoping he could see that this wasn’t about running away. It was about facing what was coming on my own terms.

The first week on the road felt like stepping back in time. Ray and I fell into the old rhythms – riding for hours, stopping when something caught our eye, finding small motels or campgrounds at night. We avoided highways, sticking to back roads where the scenery mattered more than making good time.

I kept waiting for the confusion to hit, for some sign that my mind was failing, but the road seemed to sharpen my thoughts instead of dulling them. Each morning, I wrote in my journal – where we’d been, what we’d seen, how it felt to be free again.

In North Carolina, we tackled the Tail of the Dragon – 318 curves in 11 miles. I’d dreamed of riding it for decades, and now, with the shadow of my diagnosis looming over me, each turn felt more alive, more immediate.

“Still got it, old man!” Ray shouted as we pulled over at the end, both of us grinning like the young fools we once were.

“Never lost it,” I called back, feeling more myself than I had since the doctor’s office.

We pressed on through Tennessee and into Arkansas, crossing the Ozarks on winding roads that climbed through forests just coming into spring. We avoided big cities and tourist traps, seeking out the kind of America that’s vanishing – small towns with one diner and a gas station, places where two old bikers could sit at a counter and hear local stories.

At night, around campfires or in motel rooms with thin walls, Ray and I talked about the old days. The rides we’d taken, the brothers we’d lost, the women we’d loved and left or who had left us. I recorded these conversations, hoping the sound of our voices might trigger memories later, when my mind began to fail me.

In Colorado, nearly a month into our journey, I had my first scare.

We were riding the Million Dollar Highway, a road carved into the side of mountains, with sheer drops and no guardrails. The kind of road that demands total focus, even from riders with fully functioning brains.

Halfway through, in a tight switchback, I suddenly couldn’t remember which way to lean. For a terrifying moment, my muscle memory failed me, and the bike drifted toward the edge.

I managed to correct, following Ray’s line through the curve, but the moment shook me. That night, in a small motel in Ouray, I sat on the edge of the bed, hands trembling.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” I said when Ray returned with beer from the gas station across the street. “I froze up back there. Could have gone over the edge.”

Ray sat beside me, handed me a beer. “But you didn’t.”

“This time.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You want to turn back?”

Did I? We were only a quarter of the way through our planned route. Ahead lay Utah, the Pacific Coast Highway, the long sweep north to Montana and Glacier National Park.

“No,” I said finally. “But I need you to watch me closer. If you see me hesitating, getting confused…”

“I’ve got your back,” Ray said simply. “Always have.”

The next morning, I added a new rule to my routine: before each day’s ride, I’d review the basics – which way to lean in curves, how to brake smoothly, what each control did. Simple things I’d known for decades but couldn’t risk forgetting.

We pressed on into Utah, where the landscape opened into vast red deserts and towering mesas. The roads were straight and endless, giving my mind time to wander, to contemplate what was happening to me.

In a small diner outside of Moab, we met a group of younger riders, sport bikes gleaming in the parking lot. They were curious about our journey, about the old map case mounted to my handlebars.

“You guys doing the bucket list tour?” one of them asked, a kid in his thirties with a neatly trimmed beard.

Ray glanced at me, letting me decide how much to share.

“Something like that,” I said. “Riding all the roads we missed when we were your age.”

“That’s cool, man. Hope I’m still riding when I’m your age.”

I smiled. “Hope so too, son.”

They invited us to join them for the day, riding through Arches National Park. We agreed, falling in behind their faster bikes, watching them attack corners with the fearlessness of youth.

That night, they camped with us, sharing whiskey around a fire as the stars emerged in the desert sky. I found myself telling them about my diagnosis, words flowing easier with strangers than they had with my own son.

“So this is more than a bucket list ride,” one of them said. “It’s a memory ride.”

I nodded. “Building memories while I still can. And maybe, just maybe, when things get bad, I’ll remember pieces of this. The feeling, if not the details.”

The youngest of them, a quiet kid who’d barely spoken all night, finally looked up. “My mom had Alzheimer’s. Near the end, she didn’t know any of us. But sometimes, when we played her favorite songs, something would click. She’d smile or tap her foot. Like deep down, the real her was still in there.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” I said. “That the road is so much a part of me that even when I forget my own name, I’ll still remember what it feels like to ride.”

They left the next morning, roaring off toward Colorado. Before they went, each of them shook my hand, looking me in the eye with a respect I hadn’t expected.

“Live free, ride free,” the quiet kid said. “Memory or no memory, no one can take that from you.”

---

The Pacific Coast Highway was everything I’d dreamed it would be. Ray and I took our time, riding from San Diego to Seattle over the course of a month, stopping whenever the view demanded it, which was often.

The ocean stretched endless and blue to our left, cliffs plunging to rocky shores, forests rising to our right. We rode through morning fog and brilliant sunshine, the road unwinding before us like a promise.

In a small coastal town in Oregon, we stopped for lunch at a seaside cafe. As we ate, I noticed Ray watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.

“What?” I asked.

“You seem better on the road,” he said. “Sharper. More like yourself.”

I considered this. It was true that the episodes of confusion had been less frequent than I’d feared. There were moments – forgetting the name of a town we’d passed through, struggling to recall which highway we needed to take – but nothing dangerous.

“Maybe the disease is different for different people,” I suggested.

Ray shook his head. “Or maybe the road is keeping your mind active. All those decisions, all that focus. It’s like exercise for your brain.”

I didn’t know if he was right, but I liked the idea that riding might be fighting back against what was happening to me, even if only temporarily.

We continued north, crossing into Washington state and then turning east, heading for the mountains of Idaho and Montana. The temperature dropped as we climbed in elevation, but the riding was some of the best we’d experienced – empty roads cutting through vast forests, winding along crystal-clear rivers.

In Glacier National Park, we rode the Going-to-the-Sun Road, a narrow ribbon of asphalt clinging to mountainsides, with snow still visible on the highest peaks despite the summer heat. At Logan Pass, we pulled over, removing our helmets to take in the view.

“Worth the wait?” Ray asked.

“Worth every minute,” I agreed.

Three months had stretched to four, then five. We’d covered most of the roads on our old map, zigzagging across the country, avoiding interstates whenever possible. My journal was nearly full – descriptions of places we’d seen, people we’d met, moments I wanted to hold onto.

But as September rolled into October, with leaves turning crimson and gold in the forests of the Midwest, I began to notice more frequent lapses. Small things at first – forgetting where I’d put my keys, having to check my journal to remember what town we were in.

Then not-so-small things. One morning in a diner in Wisconsin, I couldn’t remember how to sign my name on the credit card receipt. I stared at the pen in my hand, knowing I should know how to do this simple thing but drawing a complete blank.

Ray covered for me, offering the waitress cash instead. Later, in the parking lot, he faced me with concern in his eyes.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

I nodded, my throat tight. “I think it’s time to head home.”

He didn’t argue. We plotted a direct route back to Pennsylvania, still avoiding major highways but pushing for more miles each day. The carefree wandering of summer was replaced by a sense of urgency, a race against my failing mind.

In Ohio, I had my worst episode yet. We stopped for gas, and when Ray went inside to pay, I suddenly couldn’t remember where we were going or why I was there. Panic flooded through me as I looked at my bike, at the unfamiliar gas station, at the road stretching away in both directions.

I fumbled for my phone, but couldn’t remember how to unlock it. My breath came in short gasps as I leaned against the gas pump, trying to orient myself.

Ray emerged from the store to find me in this state. He approached slowly, like you would a frightened animal.

“Cal? You okay, brother?”

I looked at him, relief washing through me at the sight of a familiar face. “Ray. I… I don’t know where we are.”

“We’re in Ohio,” he said gently. “Heading home to Pennsylvania. Remember? The ride?”

Slowly, the fog cleared. I remembered the journey, remembered my diagnosis, remembered that we were heading home because my condition was worsening.

“It happened again,” I said, my voice small.

Ray nodded. “We’re only about five hours from home. Think you can make it?”

I wasn’t sure, but I nodded anyway. We mounted up and headed east, Ray now riding closer to me than before, watching for any sign that I was struggling.

We made it as far as the Pennsylvania border before I had to admit defeat. The exits and road signs were becoming confusing jumbles of letters and numbers. I signaled to Ray, and we pulled into a motel just off the interstate.

“I’ll call David,” Ray said as he helped me off my bike. “Have him come get you tomorrow. I’ll ride your bike back.”

I shook my head. “No. I started this journey on my bike. I’m going to finish it the same way.”

We argued back and forth, but in the end, Ray agreed to a compromise. We’d wait an extra day to rest, then take back roads the rest of the way home, riding slower, with more frequent stops. Ray would lead, and I would follow, focusing only on staying in his tracks.

The final day of our journey dawned clear and cool. I felt rested, more clear-headed than I had in days. We mounted up one last time, Ray checking that my GPS tracker was active, that my phone was secure in my pocket.

“Just follow me,” he said. “Don’t worry about anything else.”

The miles passed slowly. The familiar landscape of Pennsylvania rolled by – farmland and small towns, hills covered in the red and gold of autumn. I kept my eyes fixed on Ray’s back, on the steady rhythm of his Electra Glide leading the way home.

When we crested the final hill and I saw my house in the distance, my son’s car parked in the driveway, emotion overwhelmed me. We’d done it. Nearly six months and thousands of miles later, we’d ridden the roads of our dreams while I still could.

David was waiting in the yard as we pulled in, his expression a mixture of relief and amazement. Behind him stood his wife, my granddaughter Emma, and several of my old riding buddies who’d come to welcome us home.

As I shut off my engine for the last time, a profound sadness washed over me. This was the end of my life on the road. The disease would progress, and soon it wouldn’t be safe for me to ride at all.

Ray dismounted and came to stand beside me, resting his hand on my shoulder. “Hell of a ride, brother,” he said quietly.

“The best,” I agreed.

I swung my leg over the seat, standing on solid ground again. David approached, hugging me tightly.

“You made it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“Was there ever any doubt?” I tried to smile, but tears were already streaming down my weathered cheeks.

Emma ran to me next, and I lifted her into my arms, her small body reminding me of all I had to live for, even as my mind began its long retreat.

“Did you bring me something from every state, Grandpa?” she asked.

I hesitated, a moment of panic as I tried to remember her request. Then Ray was beside me, holding out a worn leather saddlebag.

“Every state,” he confirmed with a wink to me. “Your grandpa never forgot.”

Later, as my riding brothers helped unload my bike and David brought my bags inside, Ray and I sat on the porch steps, sharing one last beer as the sun began to set.

“What now?” he asked.

I looked at my Low Rider, still ticking as it cooled in the driveway. “Now I fight as long as I can. Make the most of the time I have left.”

“Any regrets about the trip?”

I thought about the moments of fear, the confusion, the knowledge that every mile was bringing me closer to the end of my riding days. Then I thought about the sunrise over the Pacific, the winding roads through the Rockies, the small-town diners and roadside conversations with strangers who became friends.

“Not a single one,” I said. “We didn’t just ride those roads, Ray. We lived them.”

He nodded, understanding perfectly. “That’s all any of us can hope for.”

I knew what was coming. The slow loss of myself, piece by piece. The day would come when I wouldn’t recognize my son, when I wouldn’t remember Ray’s name or the feeling of wind against my face.

But they couldn’t take this from me – these months on the road, this final journey. Somewhere deep in my soul, beyond the reach of any disease, the memory of freedom would remain.