One final ride

 He still wore his old engineer boots and Wrangler jeans, a black leather vest and a red bandana around his neck. Tattoos covered both arms, once vibrant, now just drooping ink on gunless arms. His beard was white, and his hair long, which he always tied back when he rode. Today was the day he'd been planning for some time now, the day he'd uncover his bike that had been in the garage for a lot of years now. Today he turned seventy-six, and his gift to himself was to take one more ride on the Harley he bought decades ago, before he couldn't ride anymore. His wife of fifty years watched him finish his cup of coffee, then made his way to the garage, turning toward the kitchen window where he knew she'd be watching. She smiled at him and waved, praying he'd come home safe.

He had prepped his bike the day before, checking fluids and giving it a good cleaning so the chrome shined and the paint was so polished he could see his wrinkled face. Tomorrow arrived, and he started it up; the roar of a Harley was music to his ears as he climbed aboard the leather saddle and gripped the throttle, gave it a few twists, then heard the familiar sound of gears smashing into place as he slowly moved forward, heading for the open road ahead. It didn't take long to go through the gears and find himself riding again. Other bikers passed him, giving the universal two fingers down, a symbol of mutual respect that meant keeping two tires on the road.
He rode through mountain roads, each curve a challenge for even the most seasoned rider, but for him, just another mile traveled like the thousands before. The roar of his bike was like music to him, with no onboard radios blasting Steppenwolf or other rock music just the red-hot pipes of a perfectly tuned Harley. He rode into the late afternoon running low on fuel, so he stopped to fill up, drawing attention from some weekend riders who asked him about his classic bike and praised him for riding at his age. He sat there for a minute or two, letting the youngsters ride off the sound of their rice burners like a swarm of bees. He put out the Camel non-filtered cigarette and dropped into gear, riding towards nowhere but an open road where he could open it up one more time as the speedometer buried itself and had no more to give. It was the feeling he desired so badly as his eyes teared through his goggles and the wind blew his face back. One hundred eighteen mph was all it could give, but that was all he could ask for as he throttled down to a safe speed.
She was at the window as he pulled into the drive, giving her a thumbs up and a smile she hadn't seen in a long while. She prayed and thanked god all in one breath, knowing he had done what he wanted to do, and those pipes would be quiet forever. She went to the garage, a cup of coffee in her hand, which he accepted as he climbed off the saddle for the last time. Tomorrow, a man who answered the ad he ran would be coming to look at the old Harley, a true classic anyone would be proud to own. He felt like he was losing his best friend as the new owner loaded it on a trailer and drove away. With the money, he bought a four-wheeler to ride around his property, and when he felt adventurous, he'd take it to the hills where other riders stared death in the eye to conquer the trails. He still wore his engineer boots and Wrangler jeans with his leather vest and red bandana, chasing the wind once again.

                                                                                   Mike 2026

              

 
Mike 2026