I sling the duffel over my shoulder and head outside.
The morning air bites immediately, crisp and sharp. The sun’s barely climbed over the pines on the edge of my property, turning the frost on the grass into tiny diamonds. I breathe in, lungs expanding, the cold burning pleasantly on the inhale.
My Harley-Davidson sits under the carport, chrome gleaming, black paint shining like a mirror even in the dim light. She’s a heavy old girl—built for long distances, not flashy rides around town—and she’s a piece of my past that carries the memories to comfort my present.
“Morning, sweetheart,” I murmur, hand sweeping over the handlebars. Tammy loved to ride with me. She loved this bike. I have another one, she’s red. I typically ride it more since it’s newer. But this one, this one I took my woman out in all the damn time. When I climb on her, I can feel the ghost of my wife wrapped tight against me. The memories comfort me even if they sometimes feel a lifetime away.
I hook the duffel onto the sissy bar, tightening the straps with practiced motions. Everything feels mechanical, familiar, grounding. Muscle memory from decades spent on her across counties, states, across deserts and mountains and rainstorms.
Riding is the only time my head quiets.
No responsibilities buzzing. No regrets knocking. No expectations waiting.
Just the throttle, the wind, and the horizon.
I turn the ignition. The bike rumbles awake instantly, the whole frame vibrating under me like a living thing. The sound rolls across the yard, deep and satisfying. My pulse matches its rhythm almost automatically.
I slide on my gloves, pop on my helmet, and settle onto the seat. The engine thrums through me, steadying something that’s been off-balance for months.
Hell, for years.
Honey’s right. I’m worn thin. Snapping without meaning to. Too quick to anger. Too slow to let things roll off me the way I used to.
And Smoke…
I grit my teeth, jaw flexing.
He’s lucky my daughter was there. He’s lucky those kids exist. He’s lucky my hands found the wall instead of his throat.
I force the thought away.
He’s Honey’s business.
He’s not what this trip is about.
This ride is about breathing.
I ease the bike down my concrete drive, engine growling as the sun finally seems to find her place for the day.
At the end of my driveway, the road stretches out—two lanes, cracked asphalt, familiar curves I’ve driven a thousand times.
I turn toward the highway. Headed west leaving everything that has me wound up tight behind.
Toward the mountains.
The wind cuts cold across my face as I pick up speed, but it feels good. Clean. Sharp. Like a slap that wakes up every part of me.
Salemburg shrinks behind me quickly—one stoplight, two churches, the diner with the best damn biscuits in the county. People wave from their porches as I ride past, because they know me, and I know them, and that’s the problem.
Everyone knows me here. Knows my story. Knows who I was when my wife was alive and who I became after. Knows my kids, my grandkids, my world. Small town shit.
It can feel hard to breathe with that many eyes on me.
The highway opens up, and I press the bike harder. The engine roars, wind whipping my jacket back, the road humming under my wheels. The fields on either side blur into golden-brown streaks, dotted with cows and old barns leaning with age.
Feels damn good.
Honey probably put me somewhere quiet, somewhere restful. She probably booked me a cabin some bullshit place with a fire pit and cozy blankets. She will expect me to rest.
