My motorcycle club brothers laughed when I collapsed trying to lift my fallen Harley, their eyes filled with pity for the old man who couldn’t handle his own bike anymore. After fifty years on two wheels, I’d become the thing I feared most – a burden they carried out of obligation, not respect.
It happened at Sturgis, of all places. Four hundred thousand bikers from across America, and I had to fall in front of my own brothers. My knees gave out as I tried to right my Heritage Softail after parking on an uneven patch of gravel. The bike wasn’t even that heavy – I’d lifted it thousands of times before. But at 72, my strength wasn’t what it used to be.
The laughter cut deeper than the road rash on my hands.
“Easy there, Ghost,” said Razor, our club’s new president, a man half my age with twice my strength. He lifted my Harley with one hand while two others helped me up. “Maybe time to consider something lighter? Or three wheels?”
The suggestion of a trike felt like a knife to my gut. In our world, those were for old men who couldn’t handle a real bike anymore. Men who were done. Finished.
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.
“Ghost, we had a club meeting last night,” he said, his face unreadable behind his perfectly groomed beard. “We think it’s time you retired your patch.”
The world stopped spinning. Fifty years of brotherhood, ended with a sentence.
“The road’s changing, old man,” he continued. “The club needs to change too. You’re slowing us down, and frankly, you’re becoming a liability.”
Each word hammered into me like the pistons of an engine I could no longer control. I looked at the faces around me – some sympathetic, others impatient, a few I’d personally brought into the club looking away in shame.
“I earned these colors,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Earned them when you were still in diapers.”
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.
“Tommy? It’s Ghost. I need a favor.”
Tommy Banks had been my road brother in the 70s before he left the life to become a trauma surgeon. We’d saved each other’s lives more times than either of us could count.
“Ghost? Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead!”
“Not yet. But the club thinks I should be.”
I explained what had happened. The humiliation. The dismissal of five decades of loyalty. When I finished, there was silence on the line.
“So what are you going to do?” Tommy finally asked.
“Something stupid,” I admitted. “Something to remind them what this life used to be about.”
Tommy sighed. “You still riding that old Heritage?”
“Until they pry it from my cold, dead hands.”
“Then you’d better come see me first. I’ve got something that might help your knees.”
Two days later, I pulled up to Tommy’s sprawling house in the Black Hills. The man who greeted me looked nothing like the wild-eyed biker I’d known – with his neatly trimmed gray hair and reading glasses – but his handshake was still iron.
“You look like hell, Ghost,” he said, grinning.
“You look like my accountant,” I shot back.
We laughed, and for a moment, it was 1975 again.
Inside his garage was a medical office that would have impressed any hospital. Tommy had always been unconventional.
“I’ve been working with aging athletes,” he explained, preparing an injection. “This is a legitimate medical treatment – not some back-alley bullshit. Stem cell therapy for joint regeneration.”
As he worked on my knees, Tommy told me about his research, his divorces, his kids. I told him about the brothers we’d lost, the roads I’d traveled, the way the club had changed.
“You know,” he said, pressing a bandage over the injection site, “there’s more than one way to ride into the sunset.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”
Tommy smiled. “The Medicine Wheel Run is tomorrow. Five hundred miles through the Black Hills in a single day. No stops except for gas. It’s become a Sturgis legend – a test of endurance that even the young guns respect.”
“And you think I should enter? With these knees?”
“These treatments won’t make you 20 again, but they’ll help with the pain. The rest?” He shrugged. “That’s up to the stubborn bastard I used to ride with.”
I left Tommy’s house with less pain than I’d felt in years and a plan that was either going to restore my honor or kill me trying.
The next morning, I rode to the starting line of the Medicine Wheel Run. Five hundred bikers had registered, most half my age or younger. When I pulled up, Razor and several of our club members were there, looking surprised to see me.
“Ghost? What the hell are you doing here?” Razor asked.
I ignored him, focusing on registering and checking my bike. The Heritage wasn’t the fastest or newest machine there, but it had taken me across this country nine times. It knew the road as well as I did.
“You’re making a mistake, old man,” Razor said, following me. “This run will break you.”
I finally looked at him. “Maybe. But I earned these colors on the road. If they’re going to be taken from me, that’s where it’ll happen.”
The run began at dawn – five hundred bikes thundering through the Black Hills. The younger riders pulled ahead quickly, showboating and racing each other. I kept a steady pace, letting the familiar vibration of my Harley speak to me through the handlebars.
The first hundred miles were easy. The second hundred, less so. By mile three hundred, riders were dropping out with exhaustion, mechanical failures, or simply lack of will. My knees ached, but Tommy’s treatment was holding. It wasn’t the pain that was the challenge – it was the endurance.
I’d been riding since before many of these men were born. I knew how to become one with the machine, how to let the road hypnotize you into a state where time disappeared and there was only the next mile, the next curve, the next horizon.
At mile four hundred, I passed Razor on the side of the road, his bike’s engine smoking. Our eyes met as I rolled past, neither of us speaking. I didn’t stop. This wasn’t about helping him anymore. This was about finishing what I started.
By the time I crossed the finish line, only thirty-seven of the original five hundred riders remained. I wasn’t the first – that honor went to a kid on a Ducati who looked like he could barely stand. But I was there. I had finished.
As I dismounted, my legs nearly buckled. My back felt like it was on fire. But I was standing. I had done what men half my age couldn’t do.
Word spread quickly through the Sturgis crowd. The old man who’d completed the Medicine Wheel Run. By nightfall, riders from clubs across the country were stopping by to shake my hand or share a drink.
Razor found me at the campsite as the sun was setting.
“Can we talk?” he asked, his arrogance replaced with something that looked almost like respect.
I nodded, and he sat across from me.
“What you did today… that was something.”
I said nothing, letting him find his words.
“The club had a meeting. About you.” He cleared his throat. “We voted unanimously. Your patch – it stays with you. For life.”
I looked into the fire. “Why the change of heart?”
“Because you reminded us what this is supposed to be about. Not how young you are or how fast you ride. It’s about heart. About brotherhood. About earning your place on the road.”
He extended his hand. “We’d be honored if you’d ride with us tomorrow. Lead the pack.”
I looked at his hand for a long moment. Then past him, to where the rest of the club had gathered, watching us.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said slowly. “About what it means to be a ghost.”
Razor frowned, confused.
“A ghost isn’t just something left behind,” I continued. “It’s something that refuses to be forgotten. That haunts the living with memories of what came before.”
I stood up, my knees protesting but holding.
“I’ll ride with you tomorrow. But not as your burden or your good deed. I ride as the ghost of what this club used to be. What it could be again.”
Razor nodded slowly. “Fair enough.”
The next morning, five hundred bikers gathered for the traditional Sturgis legacy ride. At the front, an old man on a Heritage Softail wearing faded colors and fifty years of stories on his back.
As we thundered down the highway, younger riders fell in behind me, following my lead through curves I’d known for decades. They could have passed me. Could have shown off their power and speed. But they didn’t.
They were learning what I’d known all along – that the brotherhood of the road isn’t measured in miles per hour but in the years you’ve survived to ride another day. In the wisdom earned through breakdowns and crashes and getting back up again.
In the understanding that someday, if they’re lucky, they too will become ghosts on the highway – carrying the memory of what it truly means to be a rider. Not just someone who sits on a motorcycle, but someone who lives for the horizon and the brotherhood of those who chase it.
And as for me? I’m still riding. Still feeling the wind against my face and the rumble of American iron beneath me. My knees still ache on cold mornings, and I don’t ride as far in a day as I once did.
But now when young riders see me at a stop, they don’t look past me like I’m invisible. They come up and ask about my patches, my old bike, the stories written in the lines on my face.
And I tell them. Because that’s what ghosts do. We haunt the living with memories of what came before, so they understand what they’re part of. So they know that someday, if they earn it, they too will become the last brotherhood – the ghosts that keep the true spirit of the road alive for generations to come.
Because in the end, we all become ghosts eventually. The only choice we have is what kind of ghost we’ll be – one that fades away, or one that rides on in the stories and memories of those who follow in our tire tracks.
I know which one I’ve chosen to be. And every time I throw my leg over my Harley, I ride not just for myself, but for all the ghosts who came before me. For the brotherhood that never truly dies as long as there are those who remember what it stands for.
And sometimes, late at night when the roads are empty, I swear I can hear them riding beside me – all the brothers I’ve lost over the years. Their bikes gleaming in the moonlight, their laughter carrying on the wind.
Ghosts, every one of them. Just like me.
But still riding. Always riding.
I have been reading all the bikers stories and they are wonderful and very interesting and informative. The only snag they are from the USA which is great, but are there any groups of biker brothers in the UK please as I would love to hear from someone. Thanks for reading my message.
love these men who ride in the wind, got more heart than a mustang, generally misunderstood by many God will bless them for their good hearts
love these good men who are mostly misunderstood, but God knows the good they do for others
The best story Facebook ever put on here. Wtg Ghost
Great story’s Im 69 and most of my friends are gone been riding since the 60 s Have 2017 Street Glide still riding and hope to never stop y’all all ride safe
I’m 77 and now ride a BOSS HOSS trike to weak for 2 wheels but not ready to quit yet got first harley at 16 Gonna ride till i can’t walk to my bike anymore
Lot of love all hail chip
I’m 70 and been riding since I was 15 but a year and a half ago I almost lost my life when a car coming towards me turned into me as I was going 50 mph. I was hurt real bad and my 2016 Heritage Softail was totaled. I haven’t been on a bike since then because I can’t hold it up. I’m in a club and have an honorary position as a member and hold an officers position that I have held for 3 years. I’ve been asked many times about riding a trike and my response is always the same. You start off as a 3 or 4 year old riding a tricycle and wearing diapers so I’m not about to get on a trike and wear diapers again!! Love and respect for all my brothers and bikers from all over.
Be safe and have fun, so we may pass on the brotherhood for many generations to come
I have been riding since I was 4 yrs old
And now I’m 62 years old nothing any better than a good long ride just clear my head. Be safe my Brothers and ride on.
Respectfully
Easy Money
My former husband rode a HD from the time he was 19. He loved to ride & I rode behind him & learned to love it, too! But, dementia took a hold of him & he dies last year on Jan. 27, 2024! When I had him placed in a facility I told him that I had his bike in storage for when he got better. He was a wonderful man & this story brought tears to my eyes.
Bob Soper (Sope) 80 years old. In Michigan in 1958 you could get license for a motor scooter at age 14. Got myself a Cushman Eagle. Have had something with two wheels and a motor ever since. Had 13 Harley Davidsons and at present a 2013 Ultra. Its getting real heavy at 900 lbs. I have rode from home and back to 43 states. I got 5 more to go and doing that this summer. And them that 900 lb Pearl White nick name ( Kracker ) Ultra is going to lose some weight ( tour pack and lowers ) and I will ride her till I can pick her up any more. Everyone out there ride safe and ride on.
I’m 73 and ride a Indian chief vintage, I have steel plates in my elbow and ankle, my knees ache like hell. I started riding at 17 and still love the excitement of riding, the smells, the wind, the exhaust sound, the like minded people I meet. I intend to ride till I drop.
Turned 79 the other day have been riding for the majority of my life. I am still relatively healthy and so barring blue ice falling from the sky I intend on riding until I can’t get
on my bike anymore.
I’m taking care of myself here in my youth, I plan on getting old.
At 68 I rode 400 miles a day for 4 days on my Harley. And back. Probably my last bigbride, but it was fun! Rain storms, cold, heat. All absolutely worth it!
Great stories. They’ll never get old.
If it wern’t for arthritis in my whole body that man could have been almost me.
Great story.
At 84 years and riding since I was 12, I know the pain of years of riding.
I’ve taken my last ride on my old 84 dresser this year.
Maybe. However, I still have a trike that gets me back in the wind and to new places.
I love that old Harley dresser but I’m just not strong enough to handle it anymore, should I go to the ground with it.
It is great to see so many older riders still riding and doing what they love to do.
Good luck to all.🙂👍
Excellent recap of all us old guys whose bodies have been “amended”. I’m almost 70. Spinal fusions, pins and rods in other places, various internal implants as well. After a GSW to the head and a years long rehab to just perform basis ADL’s, it was with a broken heart and a lifetime of memories that I sold the last of my bikes. ML&R to all the old bikers who, like me, that had to leave the road and accept life through the windshield of a cage with the emotional rush of the sounds of other bikes 🏍️ surrounding me. I loved your post. Thanks. Cueball
I’ll be 69 this July and been riding for 53 years. I’ve always believed in Brotherhood and the feelings of family. A lot of the miles I are solo but I have rode with clubs along time ago. There are still some of the older brothers in my area that I invite to go with me and some that invite me to go with them. We’re all really lucky to still be able to put in a day with our nose in the wind and be proud of where we come from and where we are going. Be safe ride steady and become a ghost around the circles we have rode to the end of your ride .
May God be with you and watch over you.
Ray
This was not only a very informative story but very touching. I wish you safety, health and happiness.
I have been riding and a club member since 1977 I joined the club after leaving the Army the brother hood was real and fit right in I am 72 now will be 73 this November still riding with my brothers I guess I will be a ghost one day.
Hey Ghost, do you want an Ol’lady with the heart 💜 of a lioness and the body of an old woman? I’m 65 and a widow and in Arizona come get me!
I’m 78 and still ride.Traded my fat boy for a tri glide.There’s no age limit to how long I’ll ride. I’ll ride till I just can’t anymore.Love the brothers that I ride with. They make me feel like I’m fifty again. I’m old enough to be everyone’s father or grandfather.
I’m just as old respectfully this story,lm 77 and still ride but not as much as I use to
Hey brother, although I’m not a rider, I’m a firefighter, as I read your words, they matched up to me perfectly. I’m 63 and and been fighting this beast for almost 30 years. I know no other way of life, I can feel the younger brothers looking at me and wondering when I’ll give it up. But I think your options are better, I would rather die in that fire than lay up being a burden on my family dying of cancer or anything else.
Ride on Ghost and no there’s a firefighter out here with your same battle. I was once called the Terminator by a brother because there was no quit in me.
I’ll use it to sign off now.
Rude on brother
Terminator
That story brought a tear, I never got to own a Harley but I did ride a 3 wheeled chopper for a good 10 yrs. I rode alone if not asked to ride with a group, I d I d not wear any colors or patches I RODE ALONE for the most part but was ne er disrespected by another biker young or older.
But at 72 that man taught them all a lesson young and old, great story,
well written.
I turn 73 tomorrow April 9 it still my therapy to go for ride when stressed out. I just gave up breeding Dobermans but 4 still sleep with me unconditional love the same way for my 2 biles one road couch not rides in 2 years real heavy but such nice ride. I will never give up….
Have a very dear friend who I 79 yrs old and two or three times a week. He still loves the wind in his face…
I am 78 and still riding not as much as I use to and I will never give it up. Not every. I have a 2016 trike and a 1986 low rider 1340.
Amen nothing like it
At 83 l intend to keep riding at least to 90, I’ll think about giving up the bike licence but then again I might not. The joints creak more now but they won’t stop the riding.
yes i’m 72 years and going strong started riding in 1970 when you built the bike you liked and trusted and still riding i can still read the road and the traffic around me everyone makes it out to be 72 the magic number to stop riding
Interesting story. I’m 70 years old and I’ve been riding since I was 12 and I have 3 bikes currently. The message to take away from this story is go to the Doctor if you’re having troubles As you get older. I’ve had ankle surgery. Both knees replaced all my fingers and wrist operated on both rotator cuffs sowed back together. It takes work if you want to keep riding these bikes. I get up in the morning. Make my coffee run on my nordic track and climb. Treadmill for a 1/2 hour completely changed my diet before. I can’t wait to jump on either my Harley or my Suzuki dirt bike.
Some days. I’ll ride 1/2 a day and then the another 1 a 1/2 a day. And it’s just because that’s the only thing I’ve loved to do since I was a kid. So if you’re that passionate about riding bikes as I am do the work you won’t regret it.
A life lived doing exactly what you want to do is a wealthy life no matter how much money you have or don’t have and I don’t have much but I get to do what I like and that can’t be bought.
Excellent recap of all us old guys whose bodies have been “amended”. I’m almost 70. Spinal fusions, pins and rods in other places, various internal implants as well. After a GSW to the head and a years long rehab to just perform basis ADL’s, it was with a broken heart and a lifetime of memories that I sold the last of my bikes. ML&R to all the old bikers who, like me, that had to leave the road and accept life through the windshield of a cage with the emotional rush of the sounds of other bikes 🏍️ surrounding me. I loved your post. Thanks. Cueball
Amen, Mike…..
Sometimes we remember the people that helped us along the journey. All but two, including myself, are gone. Yes I demand respect from people. I earned it in the 25+ years I put up and rode that ’61 pan. All my friends that believed in me may be gone but I’ll remember them on that first day I kicked my girl over and they stood up and cheered. That was 1982 or maybe ’83. Respect and belief in yourself. I may not ride anymore but there’s not a day goes by that I don’t think of the values the “Brotherhood” taught me… A simple young 23 year old girl turned into a self sufficient woman who’s now 66.
~Your Forever In The Wind Friend….Jackie
Awesome, 72 + and still able to ride.
All my friends that rode with me back in the 70s are gone now but I think about them everyday
I’m 70 and been through several bikes but still holding on to my panhead kick start only
That I still ride when it’s in a good mood and cranks easy.
Same here I’m 65 3 hip replacement,double back fusion, both shoulders rebuilt been riding since 70’s and still hang on to my 1st bike a 63 flh pan mostly riding my 14 ultra but most all my old riding brothers are gone as they were older than me when I started riding. The roads have changed a lot since those days and city riding ain’t no good I just like long open curvy roads. I don’t know how long I’ll ride but the memorys I’ll never forget! Stay well brother Hank
Love these old time biker stories whish there was a book foll of then don’t mean easy rider word monger stories also love Dave Mann painting also
We the older generation of riders, have earned our Respect & Reputation by putting in the miles and hard graft.Not by been the flashiest or the fastest around, but by living the life and honouring the code .
75 still riding, have gone to Sturgis 23 time from K.C. Mo. 735 mile have rode plenty of time only twice half way and stayed over night riding with group. Most of the time strange threw after working 8 hours. Dead on my feet afterwards. Have a 2000 Heritage also but my handlebars don’t vibrate B engine. Started going with 1980 FLH 1337cc. still have her. Also 2013 Street Glide but like my Heritage better.