04/06/2026
The story below is not Paul's story, bit it is a story that some of us will experience.
Well, here it is; I am 76 years old today.
I remember as a younger man, I always looked up to the older riders.
The years of travel etched onto their faces by the wind and the winding roads.
It slowly dawned on me recently; I am the "older rider " and I am fine with that.
I have been riding a long time, I mused. I have been motorized on two wheels since I was nine.
I know some started younger than that, but I never took a break. Riding, for me, was as necessary as breathing. It was meditation, freedom, a peaceful joy. It was my life blood.
So especially today, I'll go for a ride, I'll travel the old roads that restore my soul.
The garage door hinges complained louder than my knees, but once the door was open and the light spilled across the concrete floor, there she was; my '08 Twin Cam. The custom black paint as deep as midnight, the chrome catching the dawn and reflecting it back with equal beauty. I ran my hand over the tank, slow and familiar. The metal was cool, patient, waiting.
I fished in my pocket for the key. I pressed start. The engine answered with that unmistakable rumble. It wasn’t just sound; it was a pulse. After slipping on my helmet and gloves, I sat on the bike for a moment, letting vibration creep like a salve into my bones. Muscle memory kicked me into first gear.
I eased out of the driveway. The neighborhood still slept while I rolled methodically forward. When I hit the highway on-ramp, I rolled on the throttle. Wind pressed against my jacket and tugged at the gray wisps escaping my helmet. The world blurred at the edges. The ache in my shoulder faded. The tightness in my lower back got left behind. Worries that followed me everywhere: a doctor visit, the house needing paint, friends and lovers I've lost, fell behind like a car too slow to keep up.
On the open road, I was twenty-five again, chasing a horizon that never seemed to get closer. I was thirty-two, riding home after a long shift, knowing someone waited for me with the porch light on. I was forty, teaching my son how to feather a clutch in the same empty parking lot where I’d once practiced.
The machine, the wind, the highway carried all of it— every version of myself— layered together.
When I finally turned back toward home, the sun sat higher, warming my back. My hands tingled pleasantly from the bars. My joints would complain later, but that was the price of admission.
I pulled into the driveway and shut the engine off. I thought I'd just put it away, but I sat there for a moment savoring the day. Eventually, I stood and swung my leg off the bike. My knees protested, but I had a lighter step now than I'd had before.
To some, it is just a motorcycle, but for me, it is an escape into my youth.
It is my Twin Cam Time Machine.
