Years passed.
The biker began aging in ways no leather vest could disguise.
His hands shook slightly.
His right knee stiffened.
He stopped taking long rides.
Then one afternoon he dropped his motorcycle while standing still.
No crash.
No injury.
The bike leaned too far.
His leg did not catch it.
Two younger riders helped lift.
The biker laughed it off.
Then went home and covered the motorcycle.
The young engineer discovered.
She walked into his garage without knocking.
“Why covered?”
“Dust.”
“You never cover.”
“I matured.”
“Impossible.”
He looked away.
She sat in wheelchair facing him.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell truth.”
He sighed.
“My balance.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“That I’m old useless man?”
She stared.
“Did you call me useless when I needed sidecar?”
“No.”
“Then don’t be stupid.”
His eyebrows rose.
“You talk to elders badly.”
“You raised me badly.”
He almost smiled.
She continued.
“Would you ride if motorcycle could stabilize at stops?”
The biker froze.
“No.”
“That wasn’t question.”
“Yes, it was.”
“You already built?”
“Prototype.”
He glared.
She smiled.
“Come Saturday.”
He did.
A tarp covered something in 4:17 Garage.
He stopped.
“No.”
The engineer grinned.
“Yes.”
The tarp fell.
His old custom motorcycle stood underneath.
The one he sold to fund the girl’s sidecar decades earlier.
Restored.
Modified with a low-speed stabilizing system that deployed small support wheels automatically below a set speed.
Electronic clutch assist.
Modified brake control.
Lower seat.
The biker could not move.
“Where?”
The young engineer said:
“Collector in Nebraska.”
“How did you find?”
“VIN records.”
“Friends.”
“Internet.”
“How much?”
“None of your business.”
His face hardened.
“You shouldn’t—”
She cut him off.
“This isn’t repayment.”
He stopped.
Her eyes filled.
“You taught me that.”
The biker looked around.
His old riding friends had gathered.
The original mechanic.
The mother, older now.
People from garage.
Families.
The biker shook his head.
“I don’t deserve this.”