The nephew laughed.
“You hate that word.”
“Still.”
They sat.
The old biker asked:
“You remember walking in here?”
“Yes.”
“Were you scared?”
The nephew smiled.
“Terrified.”
“You didn’t look scared.”
“I was eight.”
“Kids are bad at looking scared.”
“No.”
The nephew shook his head.
“I was trying to look like Dad.”
The old biker’s expression changed.
“What did he look like?”
“Calm.”
“He was sitting in a truck having a nervous breakdown.”
“I know that now.”
They laughed.
The nephew continued.
“He told me before I went in that if you yelled, I should leave.”
“I didn’t yell.”
“You were about to.”
“Maybe.”
“He also told me not to take the five thousand.”
The old biker frowned.
“You wanted it?”
“I was eight.”
“Of course I wanted it.”
“What would you have bought?”
The nephew smiled.
“A go-kart.”
The old biker laughed until he coughed.
“At least your father saved you from that.”
The nephew looked toward the old black Harley.
Still there.
Restored.
Running.
The old biker had stopped riding it years before.
He refused to sell.
His nephew asked:
“What happens to the bike?”
“When?”
“When you’re gone.”
The old man looked at him.
“Want it?”
The nephew thought.
“No.”
The answer pleased him.
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Because I didn’t want you saying yes because it’s mine.”
“What do you want?”
The biker looked toward the scholarship area.
“Training bike.”
The nephew smiled.
“That’s a heavy machine for beginners.”
“Display first.”
“Advanced diagnostics later.”
The old man nodded.
“Let it keep teaching.”
The nephew liked that.
The Harley eventually went into the vocational program.
Students learned electrical diagnosis on it.
Charging systems.
Grounds.
Sensor faults.
Wiring.
Nobody was allowed to modify the section around the famous ground strap without documenting everything.
The first time a student asked why the contact area was deliberately left visible beneath the seat, the instructor pointed toward the old wrench above the workbench.
“Long story.”
At eighty-four, the giant biker’s health failed.
Cancer.
Late discovery.
Months.
Not years.
He accepted the diagnosis with less toughness than people expected.
He was angry.
Scared.
Annoyed.
His nephew flew in.
The old biker said:
“You don’t have to stay.”
The nephew stared.
“You still don’t learn.”
“What?”
“Adults say stuff.”
The exact phrase from a hospital gas station decades earlier.
The old biker remembered.
His face broke.
“You remember that?”
“Yes.”
The nephew sat beside him.
“I’m here.”
The older man nodded.
“That’s enough.”
The final months were ordinary.
Pain medication.
Bad television.
Club visitors.