When I fell trying to move my Harley, the howling of my motorcycle club brothers wasn’t cruel, it was worse.
It was filled with pity. After half a century of riding I had become what I dreaded the most. a burden. Not a leader. Not even an equal. Nothing but a past his best man endured because he was obliged to do so, not because he deserved it.
The pain of their laughter went deeper than the scratches on my hand.
“Careful there, Ghost” Razor said as he walked over to me picking my bike up like a feather, he said, “will you be wanting a ride home after sweetie pie?” Razor, the new head of the club, was big, keen, and just short of being out of his thirties – a hand-span short, in fact, of twice my age.
Two other guys got me to my feet. Maybe it’s time to consider something lighter? Or perhaps something with 3 wheels? “he laughed adding.
I grumbled something uncommitted trying to keep my pride alive. Inside I was bleeding – more than I did when I got buckshots in ’86.
My knees throbbed: the right one re-built after a wreck in ’79 the left one worn out from a lifetime of overcompensation.
Later that evening I stroked my hands over the patches on my vest – all of them- earned, not given. All the stitches had a story of miles covered, wounds healed, and brethren gone. These kids? They hadn’t deserved half of what those patches promised.
The following morning finding me loading my gear, Razor returned again with several of the younger members.
We had a meeting”, he said while not looking at face. We think it’s time for you to hang the patch up.
I observed their faces; pitying, apathetic and only awkward. Some I personally had brought in the club wouldn’t even look me in the eye.
I had three choices: struggle to stay, leave quietly, tell them who I was.
Therefore, I called a man I haven’t talked to in almost two decades… Tom Banks.
We were riding partners in the 70s before he left the road to join trauma surgery. I told him everything – how I’d become a joke to the only family I would ever know.
It was quiet at the other end. He told me “come see me” then.
Two days went by before I had pulled up to his house in the Black Hills. In his garage he had a private medical establishment that was better than most hospitals. Typical Tommy—always unconventional, always brilliant.
While treating my knees we talked about his career, my decades on the road, the brothers that we lost and how the club felt different now. He listened. Then he smiled.
“There’s a ride tomorrow,”
He said. “The Medicine Wheel Run. Five hundred miles in the Black Hills. No breaks except for gas. It’s sort of a Sturgis legend now”.
And you think I should do that?
“These treatments won’t make you young again” he said, “but they’ll dull the pain”. What is left is for the stubborn bastard I used to ride with.
Next morning I rocked up to the start line. There were five hundred there, mostly young, mostly swagger. There was already a few club members and Razor there and they were shocked to find me there.
We had a smooth start- the first hundred miles. The second hundred took focus. By three hundred miles the bikes were breaking down, Tap out of riders. My body ached, but the torture wasn’t really the tough part of it, it was the will check.
At four hundred miles I passed Razor. His bike lay on the side of the road steaming from the engine. I nodded by as I was riding.
By the time, I barely stayed upright when I parked at the finish line. My legs shook. My spine screamed. But I had done it.
Later that night once the sun had dropped behind the hills Razor caught up with me at the campsite.
“We had a club meeting again”, he said. “We voted. Unanimously. Your patch stays. For life.”
I stared into the fire. “Why the change of heart?”
“Because today, you reminded us what this was actually about,” he said. “Not speed. Not age. Heart. Brotherhood. Earning your place.”
We had five hundred bikers who came the next morning for the legacy ride. Up front there was an old man on a Heritage Softail, faded jacket from years of travel holding fifty years of road stories.
They could’ve passed me. They didn’t.
And me? I still ride. Not anymore as fast, and not so far. When it’s cold my knees hurt, and I take more breaks. Every time I get on the bike and throw my leg over the seat I am riding for every brother that I’ve lost. For the road which turned me. A brotherhood that is still alive if we remember what it’s for.