I found the “For Sale” ad for my 1976 Harley Shovelhead when I was checking my grandson’s computer. My own son had listed my bike online without saying a word to me. Forty-seven years I’d owned that machine. Rode it cross-country four times. And now they wanted to sell it because “Dad’s getting too old to ride safely.”
At 68, I’ve got more miles under my belt than most riders half my age. That bike and I survived Vietnam flashbacks, a broken marriage, and every storm the road could throw at us. It wasn’t just metal and chrome—it was my freedom, my therapy, my best friend when nobody else understood.
The listing said, “Vintage Harley, good condition, elderly owner can no longer ride.” Elderly? I’ve been changing my own spark plugs since before my son could walk. Just last summer I did a 600-mile weekend with my riding club.
I printed that ad and folded it into my pocket. They were all coming for Sunday dinner—my son Mike, his wife Cathy, and my two grandkids. They thought they were coming to convince me it was time to “move on.”
They had no idea what was coming.
I spent Saturday in the garage, polishing every inch of the Shovelhead until I could see my reflection in the chrome. Each stroke of the cloth was like visiting with an old friend. We’d been through so much together, this bike and I.
I bought her in ’76 with my combat pay. Back then, most of the guys I served with were buying houses or fancy cars. But I needed something different. Something that would let me outrun the nightmares that followed me home from the jungle.
The bike never judged me when I had to pull over because the sound of a helicopter overhead sent me back to places I didn’t want to remember. She just waited patiently until I could breathe again, then carried me away from those ghosts.
When Linda left me in ’89, taking our son with her, the Harley was there. For three weeks, I rode from dawn till dusk, sleeping at roadside motels and eating at diners where nobody knew my name or my troubles. By the time I came home, I could face an empty house again.
I ran my fingers over the worn leather seat. The small tear on the left side happened during a rainstorm in Colorado. The slight dent in the gas tank was from the time I laid it down avoiding a deer in Tennessee. Every mark told a story. My story.
The doorbell rang at exactly noon on Sunday. I wiped my hands on a shop rag and went to let them in.
“Dad!” Mike said, giving me one of those quick hugs men do. “You look good.”
Cathy kissed my cheek. “We brought apple pie.”
The kids, Tyler and Emma, gave me distracted greetings, already looking for the cookies I always kept for them.
“Lunch is almost ready,” I said. “Hope you’re hungry.”
We sat around the kitchen table, the same one where I’d taught Mike to rebuild a carburetor when he was twelve. He’d been so interested then, before college and corporate jobs made him forget the satisfaction of working with your hands.
“So, Dad,” Mike started, after we’d finished eating. “We wanted to talk to you about something important.”
I took a sip of coffee and waited. I could feel the ad burning a hole in my pocket.
“I’ve been worried about you,” he continued. “You live out here alone, still riding that old motorcycle. Dr. Peterson mentioned your arthritis is getting worse.”
“Did he now?” I said. “Interesting, since I haven’t seen Peterson in over a year.”
Mike glanced at Cathy, who jumped in. “What Mike means is that we care about you. We’ve been reading about accident rates for older riders, and it’s concerning.”
“Concerning,” I repeated. “I see.”
Tyler, sixteen and always on his phone, looked up. “Grandpa, did you know your reaction time decreases like twenty percent every decade after fifty?”
“Is that right? Where’d you read that? Wikipedia?” I asked.
Mike cleared his throat. “Dad, we think it might be time to consider selling the Harley. Before anything happens.”
I reached into my pocket and unfolded the paper, smoothing it flat on the table. “You mean this?”
The color drained from Mike’s face. Cathy suddenly became very interested in her napkin.
“You went behind my back,” I said quietly. “Listed my bike for sale without even talking to me first.”
“Dad, we were going to discuss it today,” Mike said. “I just wanted to see what kind of interest there might be.”
“Seven people have contacted you already,” I said. “Including someone named Brad who offered cash today. You told him he could come by this afternoon.”
Mike had the decency to look ashamed. “I was going to tell you.”
I pushed back from the table. “Come with me.”
I led them to the garage. I’d set it up just for this moment. On one wall hung framed photos of me and the bike over the years. Me in my twenties, hair down to my shoulders, leaning against the Harley in front of the Grand Canyon. Me and Linda on our honeymoon, the bike packed with camping gear. Me and Mike when he was ten, sitting on the bike in the driveway, grinning with pure joy.
On the workbench lay my maintenance logs, documenting every oil change, every repair, every modification for nearly five decades. Next to them was my safety gear—helmet, leather jacket, gloves—all well-worn but meticulously maintained.
“This isn’t just a motorcycle,” I said. “This is my life. Every major moment, every struggle, every victory—that bike was there.”
“But Dad,” Mike said, “you’re getting older. We worry about you.”
“Getting older doesn’t mean I’m ready for the scrap heap,” I replied. “Last month I rode with the Veterans Motorcycle Club to raise money for the VA hospital. Ten thousand dollars we raised. Three hundred miles in two days.”
I picked up my riding journal. “Last year I rode 8,500 miles. No accidents, no close calls. I’ve been riding since before you were born, son. I know my limitations.”
Cathy touched my arm. “Frank, we just want you to be safe.”
“I know,” I said. “But safe doesn’t mean stopping living.”
I walked over to the bike and ran my hand along the handlebars. “You know what this is to me? Freedom. When everything else was falling apart, this machine kept me sane. Kept me going.”
The garage fell silent except for the ticking of the old wall clock.
“I had a buddy in Nam. Richard Colson. Best rider I ever knew. When we got home, he gave up his bike because his wife was scared. Said he’d ride again when the kids were grown. Cancer got him at fifty-two. Never got back on a motorcycle.”
I turned to face them. “I’m not giving up the one thing that makes me feel alive because you’re afraid of what might happen. I’d rather go out doing what I love than wither away playing it safe.”
Mike looked at the photos on the wall, really seeing them for the first time. “I didn’t realize…”
“No, you didn’t,” I said. “And you didn’t ask.”
Just then, we heard a car pull into the driveway.
“That’ll be Brad,” Mike said uncomfortably. “The buyer.”
“Perfect timing,” I said.
A young man in his thirties approached the open garage door. Clean-cut, wearing a Harley t-shirt that still had the store creases in it.
“Mr. Williams?” he asked. “I’m Brad Thompson. I called about the Shovelhead.”
Before Mike could speak, I stepped forward. “I’m Frank Williams. That’s my bike you’re interested in.”
Brad smiled. “Beautiful machine, sir. I’ve been looking for a classic Shovelhead for years.”
“Ever owned a Harley before?” I asked.
“No sir,” he said, a bit too eagerly. “This would be my first.”
I nodded slowly. “Mind if I ask why you want this particular bike?”
He shrugged. “It’s vintage, you know? Classic. Would look great parked outside my condo.”
I exchanged a look with Mike. For once, we were thinking the same thing.
“Brad,” I said, “this isn’t a bike for beginners. And it’s not a showpiece. Shovelheads need a rider who understands them, who’s willing to get their hands dirty.”
Brad frowned. “But the ad said—”
“The ad was a mistake,” Mike cut in. “My father’s bike isn’t for sale after all.”
After Brad left, Mike turned to me. “Dad, I’m sorry. I should have talked to you first.”
I nodded. “Yes, you should have.”
Cathy stepped forward. “We still worry about you, Frank. Isn’t there some compromise?”
I thought for a moment. “How about this—I’ll take a safety refresher course. The Harley dealer offers them for experienced riders. And I’ll call you when I get back from longer rides.”
“And maybe we could ride together sometimes,” Mike said hesitantly. “It’s been years, but I remember how.”
I looked at my son in surprise. “You’d want to do that?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe it’s time I remembered what was so important about it to you.”
That evening, after they’d gone, I sat on the porch with a beer, looking at the Harley parked in the driveway. The setting sun caught the chrome just right, making it glow like it was on fire.
My phone buzzed with a text from Mike: “Found my old motorcycle boots in the attic. Still fit. When are we riding?”
I smiled and texted back: “Saturday. 8am. Don’t be late.”
Three days later, I got a call from Jack Brennan, president of our riding club. “Frank, got a situation. Tommy’s grandson is getting married in California next month. Tommy wants to ride out there, but his daughter is raising hell about him going alone at 72.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re putting together an escort?”
“Seven of us so far,” Jack said. “All Vietnam vets, all over sixty. Calling it ‘Operation Wedding Crasher.’ You in?”
I thought about Mike’s concerns, about the promises I’d made. But I also thought about Tommy, who’d saved my life in Khe Sanh, getting to see his grandson marry.
“Coast to coast with a bunch of old war horses?” I said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
After we hung up, I went to the garage and pulled out my maps. Started plotting routes, marking interesting stops, calculating distances. It would be about 3,000 miles each way. Two weeks on the road, minimum.
I’d need to change the oil, check the tires, pack light. Most of all, I’d need to talk to Mike and the family. Make them understand that this wasn’t recklessness—this was living.
The next morning, I called Mike at work.
“Dad? Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I said. “But I need to tell you something. My old unit is doing a ride to California next month. Tommy Harrison’s grandson is getting married.”
Silence on the line. Then: “How long would you be gone?”
“About three weeks total. Seven of us going, all experienced riders.”
Another long pause. “Are you asking my permission?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m telling you my plans out of respect. I promised I’d keep you informed, and I’m keeping that promise.”
Mike sighed. “Three weeks is a long time, Dad.”
“It is,” I agreed. “And thirty years from now, when you’re my age, you’ll understand how fast three weeks can go by.”
“Can I think about it?”
“You can think all you want,” I said. “But I’m going. The question is whether I go with your blessing or your worry.”
That Sunday, Mike showed up at my house in jeans and a leather jacket I hadn’t seen in years.
“Little tight,” he admitted, tugging at the sleeves.
“Still looks good,” I told him. “Ready to ride?”
We took it easy that first day. Just a hundred miles on country roads, stopping for lunch at a roadside diner where the waitress called us both “honey” and the coffee never stopped coming.
Watching Mike on his rented Harley, I saw glimpses of the boy who used to beg for rides around the block. By the time we headed home, he was smiling the way he used to before mortgages and promotions and the weight of his own family’s expectations.
At my driveway, he pulled off his helmet. “I forgot what it felt like,” he said. “The freedom.”
I nodded. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“About this California trip,” he said. “I’ve been thinking.”
I waited, expecting more arguments, more concerns.
“I want to come with you,” he said.
“What?”
“I’ve got three weeks of vacation saved up. Cathy says she can handle things at home.” He looked at me. “If you’ll have me.”
Something tightened in my chest. “Son, it’s a long ride. Tough some days.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’ll be riding with someone experienced,” he said. “Someone who can show me the ropes.”
Two months later, we stood at the Pacific Ocean, our bikes parked on the overlook above the beach. Seven Vietnam vets and one corporate executive who’d rediscovered something he’d lost.
“We made it, Dad,” Mike said, watching the sunset paint the water gold and crimson.
I thought about the miles behind us. The breakdowns and rainstorms, the magnificent vistas and greasy spoon diners. Most of all, I thought about the conversations we’d had on long stretches of empty highway, speaking through helmet intercoms about things we’d never discussed around a dinner table.
“We did,” I agreed. “But it was never about the destination.”
That night, at Tommy’s grandson’s rehearsal dinner, I stepped outside for some air and found myself looking at the row of motorcycles parked in the lot. Average age of their owners: 67. Average miles ridden: over 500,000.
Mike joined me, handing me a beer. “I’ve been thinking about getting my own bike when we get back,” he said. “Something I can work on with Tyler.”
I nodded. “The Shovelhead will need a new clutch soon. Could use an extra pair of hands.”
“You know,” Mike said, “when I listed your bike for sale, I thought I was protecting you. I didn’t realize I was trying to take away the thing that keeps you young.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “You know what keeps me young? Not the motorcycle. It’s having something to love, something to look forward to. Some people find it in grandkids or golf or gardening. I found it on two wheels.”
Mike smiled. “I get it now, Dad. I really do.”
The next morning, before the wedding, I sent a group text to our riding club back home: “Mission accomplished. Tommy at the wedding. Even danced at the rehearsal dinner. Heading back Tuesday. Tell the old folks home they’ll have to wait a few more years for me.”
Jack texted back: “Never doubted you, Frank. By the way, three new members joined while you were gone. Two Vietnam vets and one Iraq. Youngest is 58, oldest is 75. Old men on motorcycles. Some things never change.”
I smiled and put the phone away, watching as my son helped Tommy with his tie before the ceremony.
Some things do change, I thought. Sometimes for the better.
On the long ride home, somewhere in the Nevada desert, I thought about that “For Sale” ad that had made me so angry. If Mike hadn’t created it, we wouldn’t be here now, riding side by side across America.
Sometimes what looks like an ending is really a beginning. And sometimes, the most important journeys have nothing to do with the miles you travel.
The 1976 Shovelhead still sits in my garage, ready for the next adventure. It’s not for sale. Never was. Never will be.
Some things aren’t meant to be sold or set aside. Some things—the important things—you hold onto until the end of the road.
And when that day comes, I’ll go out the way I lived: in motion, facing the wind, following the horizon to whatever comes next.
I love that story😎 I’m 69 and the first female to ride in my town in 1972. My brother gave me 125 Yamaha dirt bike and that got the boys attention. My lifeguard instructor owned the only Harley shop and invited me to ride that night. He gave me an older Sportster and a bunch of us cruised downtown Boston. He let me take it on rides by myself . First stop my brothers house! I was 17. I’m 69 now and I quit riding when my kids were born. I miss it.
What a beautiful story! What an inspiration for older people everywhere! I totally understand I am an adventurer myself at age 79. I married 2 Vietnam veterans. My first husband and I rode motorcycles every weekend. We also had a boat and a race car that he drove on Sat. night every week. He died in a car accident. Then, I married another Vietnam Veteran. I know what demons haunt most War Combat Veterans. Hobbies like riding and even working on your Bike or Trike helps with PTSD. But whatever my husbands wanted to do I was always ready for adventure. You are my kind of hero!! Like Tom Petty”, you stand your ground, and you don’t back down!” Hell, just surviving that War and dealing with your ghosts gives you the right to do any damn thing, you please, even if you were 100 yrs. old. Good luck and God Bless you! Judith P. judy6piorkowski@gmail.com, Palm Harbor, Fla.
This is why I don’t have kids. Nearly every family I have ever seen are already planning how they are going to spend their “inheritance”. Like its owed to them, their entitlement. And they will put you in hospice in a heartbeat, knowing full well the plan is to jack you up on morphine then turn down the oxygen. Silent suffocation, “legal” euthnization. Keep the bike, ditch the kids, give your money to charity. Your odds are way better.
Absolutely wonderful story, from one old timer to another..
Well I’m 63 been riding motor bikes since I was in highschool I just got my first Harley about 4 years ago and I do feel at peace when the wind is in my face, I love my 1200 sportster I don’t feel old when we get together me n my sportster 1200 we belong
Last time I saw my father, I was 8 years old. One of my older brothers bought me a mini-bike (he was 15 and working for peanuts) and I was forever hooked. Even at 8 years old, I understood how just getting away on 2 wheels is a great way to get your head together. I’ve owned several bikes since. Bought my first Sportster (a basket case 59) at 15. My first big twin, a 80 Super Glide. I’ve owned a lot of Harleys, hanging on to my favorites. I currently have 9 Harleys, including my Super Glide. I once rode that bike 10,000 miles in 10 days. I never really kept track of how many miles in total I’ve riden over the years, but I have no doubts that it’s easily into the 7 digits, possibly 8. I’ll be turning 65 in about a month. I have a slipped disc that sometimes kills me. I still own a hardtail (the 1st bike I built from scratch and the 2nd big twin I owned) although I don’t ride it like I use to. Even in my early 20’s riding riding it from Chicago to California and back was, “interesting?” HA! I’m currently rebuilding my old Super Glide and putting it back to stock. I can’t imagine ever giving up riding. My leathers are well broken in. I don’t ride a motorcycle to make a fashion statement or to try to impress anyone. I ride for ME!
If my kids were to ever do anything behind my back (I don’t think they would, but….) I would have a real hard time ever speaking to them again. What’s next, the nursing home? I don’t think so. I’ll jump the Grand Canyon on my Super Glide first!
This story sounds like me and my Race Car. I am 84 years old have been driving race cars on and off for 66 years and there is nothing like the thrill of sitting in that seat and fire that thing up and letting it all hang out.
I road for a few years after Vietnam. Had a Honda , road bike not a Harley because funds were in short supply. Got married and she got into riding right behind me. Safe as I was, didn’t see that big pothole in the Blue Ridge parkway. I laid her down, wife on the back rode me hard for 15 or twenty feet but didn’t get a scratch. Bike held up remarkably well, one little wore through spot on the transmission case.
Went to the Waynesville hospital in the back of an ambulance, the paramedics insisted and I fought to ride the bike but lost. If you never had the asphalt scrubbed out of your body parts with iodine and a green scrubber then can’t say you would understand why the nurse and doctor both got gone before they untied me from that gurney.
Put some duct tape over the hole, rode her home. Funny thing was I looked like a bad mummy by the time I got back with bandages looking like streamers tagging along behind. Sold that thing to make the wife happy a few months later, regretted it for 10 years.
Kids in school and me pushing a 18 wheeler over the highways looking at all the bikes out there, got lonely and she said stupid and slipped in and got me another one. One of them Kawasaki’s. My little girl was in grade school and the best part of my life was seeing the look on her face when her dad showed up to ride her home on the back of that thing. Like he said you can’t buy memories but that old bike made them for you. I’m 74 now and don’t own one any more because the wife says I’m too old. Guys I have 6 million verified miles in a truck, Driver of the month in 2006, N.C. verified safety awards, but I know my limits and I’m there. Ride safe and look all 4 ways. I still do and I watch 4 you!
As a fellow Viertnam Vet, 78 years old, I am still riding mostly log solo jaunts.
Weak knees recently forced me to give up my Ultra Classic and switch to a trike. I missed two wheels so badly that I also bought a 100th anniversary Softail which is more nimble and much lighter and lower just for fun.
Years after I’m gone, the kids and grandkids will still remember the rides they got on Papaw’s bikes as they grew up.
If I have to explain , you wouldn’t understand ! It’s more about the journey, the destination is just a bonus ! I’ve loved and would rather be on 2 wheels as opposed to 4 ! I spent 25 years OTR been to all of the lower 48 driving those big trucks ! Now, I’d like to see this country again on 2 wheels ! This time , there’s no deadline !
My hubby and I both had rides. A stroke in 2000 unabled John to ride. I kept my Honda for 2 yreas after he went into nursing home. I have a lot of degenerated disks lumbar area. Finally had to sell my Honda as the pain Finally got so bad it ruined my ability to focus when riding . Gave in and sold my bike before I got hurt or hurt someone else. A hellbof a decision but had to be made. Sure miss it tho.
Beautiful true story. My Soft tail is still setting in the garage waiting for warmer Kentucky weather. I thought about selling, but that story convinced me , it’s my freedom machine. Thanks!
Brother that was a story that caught my feelers and yanked. Just am 56 and have some miles in the saddle and hope that there are a million more. Thanks for your service to our country. Unfortunately my dad’s life was taken in that war you want to forget but unfortunately never will. His best friend was able to find me at age 18 and we built a relationship and we rode a few times together. He passed a year ago at 74 still riding and in my garage sits his 1941 HD Knucklehead undergoing a restoration and it won’t be long till I ride that with about the same amount of yanked feelers that i had reading your story.
I’m 79 & still riding, have an old 86 Honda 1100 VT Shadow, a 94 goldwing and a 1987 Honda magna 750! I’ve been riding for the last 50 years and have no intention of stopping! I’ve been to every state except Alaska, and Hawaii! Alaska is on my bucket list!!!
I started out in the early 60s on a night 1948 Cushman scooter I work my way all the way up from a one 175 up to 1800 goldwing been Hondaing for a long time
Will be 75 next month my bike’s been down for quite some time and is in the repair shop hopefully it will be out soon I’m getting sight about making some trips with one of my friends
Don’t know if this is a story or true but every true biker has this feeling. Mine is for my 2000 Vulcan Classic. I was in a really bad spot in my life and head a few years ago and had given up but I wanted one last ride. My girl Mara took me to the mountains and every time I thought it was time to head home, in every way, she would start acting up and I would have to get her to the next little town to deal with the new issue. After 6 hours and over 200 miles of mountain roads my head was straight and I knew that I wasn’t done fighting, as soon as I made that decision she straightened right out and took me to the house, roaring through the hills like she knew she had won. Mara will forever have her place in my garage as long as I am alive, even if I get to the point that I can no longer ride she will be cared for and loved and ready to save the next life.
Still riding on two wheels at 69!!
Just turned 74 two days ago. Been riding since 1973. I currently have a 1996 Honda Magna 750, and a 2017 Harley TriGlide. (I’m not ready to give up 2 wheels yet)
When asked when I am going to quit riding, I say, “I’ll quit, when you can pry my cold dead fingers off the handlebars!”
Only a true RIDER, understands how this feels, you the open road wind in your face, and the hum of the” “LADY” between your legs.
Awesome 👌
I am 81 & still riding my 2005 Harley Classic softail. Every weekend with 6 others I am probably 20 years older than the next oldest! 2 have trikes. Still making memories!
I’m 78 yesterday. Still riding every opportunity I get. Had to choose between giving up and getting a lighter machine. I chose the latter and love every minute I’m on it. God bless Honda for producing a bike us shorties can ride into old age. You don’t stop riding when you get old, you get old when you stop riding. Keep the shiny side up guys.
Great story Frank….from a 82 year old Vietnam Vet with over 1,000,000 miles on the clock…
Jim Lattimore
Franklin, TENNESSEE
I have an 08 Harley 1200 custom Sportster with accessories from my 03 Sportster on it , My husband what’s be to get a new one , after reading this he now understands why I don’t what another bike
Great story, I started riding in 1965. British bikes first then my new Harley xlch in 1972. I’m 75 still riding, 2020 hd triglide trike and 2003 hd springer softail. Don’t do long rides like I used to. Maybe 5 hours one way to old buddy from the 60s. My wife loves the trike, so do l. But sometimes I ride the springer, love it. Hope to keep riding into the future.😎👍
Very inspiring I have only been riding 25 years and 150000miles And I have been at that point where things and people are telling it’s time to quit. I just don’t know. But I have a better idea now.
The Wind,The Freedom
The Fresh Air, The Sounds of life all around you.
To ride is to understand &
Relax & Enjoy the Poetry
of Life!
I’ve only been riding for just shy of forty years. I’ve only owned a total of seven bikes, still have two of them and an ATV, because I also enjoy riding off-road, as well.
I was Blessed to have purchased a dual-sport bike while I was in the service out west and because of that bike, I got to see So Much that could only be seen on a dual-sport bike.
I’ve long since been medically discharged under honorable conditions. Not all days are good, but I still enjoy the Freedom while riding. We don’t have much off road capability in Iowa, but I’m considering letting go of my old ‘78 GS 550 that I’ve had for the last 25 years…I’ve earned many miles riding that bike, but I’ve put on just as many on my new ‘89 GL 1500 Wing, as well. I’ve been to Sturgis several times and have been Blessed to volunteer time working in the hospital ministry, primarily in the Spearfish hospital, as I am a CMA (Christian Motorcyclist Association) member.
To me riding is a part of life, it’s all about the journey, but more importantly it’s about our final destination (eternity). I would like everyone to know Jesus Christ as his or her personal Savior and to spend eternity with Him. The alternate, hell, isn’t a good choice, as the BIBLE (Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth) tell us, but The Lord allows each of us to decide what or if we ride and who we choose to follow.
The fact is that each and everyone of us have to pay taxes and we will all pass from this earth and go to heaven or hell; that choice is entirely up to us. As for me, I choose to follow and serve The Lord; one way that I choose to do that is by enjoying the freedom that He has given me with the ability to continue riding and sharing rides and my life with others. I have been through a lot, just as the veteran who spoke of his story here. I choose to see Challenges as Adventures, these days… I have a saying, “Enjoy The Adventure!”, because we don’t know what is just around the corner…only The Lord knows 😊
I truly get where he’s coming from. “Wind therapy “ has kept me riding for over 52 years. Had my share of breakdowns and accidents, made memories that will last a lifetime, laughed and cried and lost a son (distracted driver). A part of him rides with me every time I go out. He was just beginning to understand why I ride. Riding keeps my sanity intact and fills a void in my life that only bikers can understand.
67 years old and still “behind bars” on the road.
Never bury your passion for living life. It’s a 1 way ticket that we live.
I bought my first bike at 15. First Harley at 21. Rebuilt first time since 1969. The phone doesn’t want to print what I say, just what it wants to. Sorry about the misprints.
I agree wholeheartedly I’m almost 78 I bought my first bike had 15 my first Harley had 21 1951 45 which I still have and am rebuilding the engine again first time in 19 59. I bought my 1981 FLT in 1983. I road it to work everyday year-round in Indiana. I am now more of a fair weather Rider I really miss putting the first tracks in the snow with my motorcycle. It is part of me, I’m known for it, I plan to ride as long as I can when I can’t I will still have it close to me. Again I know exactly how you feel. Ride safe and I will do the same.
What a great story, thank you for sharing Frank.
I read through a few tears, I have to admit..I’m 70 close to 71, been riding for close to 50 years ..Hope to ride till the last.
I’m 84 and survived all those quit riding comments for years. I feel safer on my bike than I do walking.All my riding buddies have quit but not me I’m a hard head ,die hard.My ’05 Sportster Roadster 1200 has 104,000 miles on it and still rolling. RIDE ON !
.
77 and still at it. Sometimes that’s all u have left.
I’m 67 still riding everyday mostly I have owned over 300 motorcycles that was very few times when I couldn’t ride physically but I can now and I will continue to until I die
I’M 75 AND STILL RIDE I CAN’T RIDE A 2 WHEELER SO I BUILT A HOME MADE RAT TRIKE. 350 CHEVY V8 AUTO AIR BAG SUSPENION ON REAR AND AIR SHOCKS ON FRONT. MY WIFE AND I LOVE TO RIDE I STARTED RIDING WHEN I WAS 11 YRS OLD
I’m 76 still riding either my Dyna Low Rider or Royal Enfield depending on mostly just whimsy. My dad, a WWII vet, died at age 90 and was riding two weeks before his death and splitting firewood the year before that. I hope to be doing the same.
That was a great story the truth about a biker and his bike his freedom his loves in life his losses the wisdom that grew within him
Some do not understand what it means to be a rider who owns a legend bike
Agree100% 74 still riding.
Live doing what makes you happy. I loved riding and breaking horses but those days are done for me as I have arthritis in every joint . But i still make my way slowly to pet them..