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His decision was a long time coming. Slowly he stands up, knee's aching, hands tight and swollen, sharp pain shooting through his back. Nothing feels right anymore, he's simply existing, unable to find comfort or pleasure. This shouldn't be his reward after a lifetime of riding, working, and worrying himself over shit that never even mattered. Just the thought of one more day on this goddamn couch and he figures he might as well just end it.
Nothing about his existence these last several years could even remotely be mistaken for life. He has to do something quick, before he changes his mind again. No not quick... right fucking now!
Death was coming for him and he sure as hell isn't going to let the son-of-a-bitch find him in a drug-induced sleep, on this ragged-ass old couch.
Leaving his perch to its own devices, he takes his first step away from the couch. Without looking back, he slowly rambles into the foyer. Already straining with effort, he lovingly pulls his vintage leathers from the back of the entryway closet. For too many years it had silently hung in the dark, screaming his name from its undeserved confines.
Where have you been my brother
Can you forgive me
Done, let's roll
Shoving his inhaler and a fresh pack of full- flavor cigarettes into his pocket, he opens the front door, allowing the wind to slam it shut behind him. Unlocking the man-door into the garage, he smacks the button on the wall and watches with anticipation as the garage door slowly lifts, allowing sunshine to stream in, revealing the forgotten beauty of the outside world.
He takes his time reuniting with the old Harley he parked quite some time ago. Brushing dust from the tank, he silently embraces his dark truth. His true motive for keeping his bike despite those who kept insisting he sell it.
We knew this day would come
Gathering his strength, determined to see this through, he awkwardly manages to straddle the bike and land fully in the saddle. Planting his feet, he shifts his weight and reaches for the apes and finds what he has learned to live without... comfort.
Encouraged, he kicks it over, again and again until it comes alive. Blood coursing faster through his veins as his heart-rate increases, and his sore, old ass welcoming the familiar vibration. Immediately, the message reaches his soul.
Why did I wait so long
A sharp pain shoots up his leg, suddenly pulsing through his lower back, but he ignores it, refusing to give in and go back to the couch. It's time damn it, been sedentary long enough. With a painful moan masked by iron thunder, he heads towards the highway.
Fuck it, just ride
Many miles later, at a red light on the outskirts of a small town he hasn't been through in years, he takes a tighter grip on the bars and stands up, gently twisting his torso from left to right in effort to relieve the pain. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he emits a loud groan as he slowly settles back into his seat.
Too hot, too weak, too much pain
Realizing he was offering himself a multitude of reasons to turn around and give up, he studies his rear-view, chastising himself for even having such thoughts.
Nothing back there
Continuing on, he begins to reflect, mostly on various faces from his youth. The good years, back when friends became brothers. When partying all night, sweet impulsive sex, and good cocaine was all he ever wanted. The one that got away suddenly makes her appearance in his thoughts and lingers there to haunt him. The next light turns red, and without losing focus on her memory, he backs it down and brings it to a stop, boot-clad feet finding the road as he whispers aloud the words he did not speak, at the only time they could have mattered.
The light turns green and from out of nowhere a brand new pickup comes barreling in his direction showing no sign of slowing down. He clearly sees the driver look up from his distraction, but the idiot doesn't slow down.
Stop mother-fucker, I'll do this my way
He veers to the left of the center lane, making eye contact with the fool in the cage as he passes. Meeting the old man's thousand mile stare causes the idiot to react with his finger, as if the old biker had somehow been the cause of him forgetting how to drive, turning his head, he floors his pickup.
Heart rate up, this time by several extra beats, the old biker feels a spasm begin in his chest and fights the urge to chase the pickup down and beat some ass for breaking his previous train of thought. For this moment though, it takes everything he's got left to ignore the pain, and forgets about making the chase.
On a mission, distractions are the enemy
Shaking his head, as if to clear the event from memory, he settles back into the rhythm and rumble of his bike, mentally flipping through the pages of his life once again.
Before he travels too much further, he spots what looks to be an old neon sign up ahead. He rides closer, focusing on the words as he approaches. Old feelings began to surface as he gets near and the words are revealed. His heart dances, eyes threaten to mist over, and suddenly, he's parched.
Cold Beer - Bikers Welcome
Closer now, he spots another neon sign, this one in the window. An old, dingy oval, fifties style, advertising exactly what he had hoped to find.
Jim Beam
He smiles. Drinking had been been a huge part of his old life, and then suddenly, it had became a life-threatening evil. Much time has passed since last he enjoyed a stiff drink, but today, that shit was gonna change. Certain he still had enough life left in him to make his own goddamn decisions, without remorse, he made one.
I choose to stop here
Cutting the throttle back, he downshifts the old Baker transmission a few times, matching each one with a crisp rap of the throttle, just as he always had. He swings his bike around, puts his feet down, and gently backs it up slowly as old familiar pain shoots up his left leg to his knee.
Fuck
A second, more harsh 'fuck' escapes his lips, he gathers his strength and pushes the old bike backwards until it gently bumps its rear tire against the curb. Flipping the kick-stand out with the toe of his left boot, he lets his aging iron horse gently rest itself on the hot asphalt. Reaching behind his right thigh, he turns the key, allowing ninety-six cubic inches of American steel to unwind to a stop.
This old joint looks ready to fall down too
Wiping sweat with a faded bandanna, he turns to see the tavern door open wide as a couple walks out. In their wake, he is treated to a cast of old, familiar smells.
Home
He's always favored the more shoddy dives, the ones where you can smell their history through the stench of cheap-ass-beer, a thick cloud of smoke, and way too many spilled whiskeys.
Every mile, worth it
As quickly as his tired old frame allows, he dismounts and stands in front of the drinking establishment, stretching his back and legs as he studies the front door, wincing with pain.
What kind of night, cheap or expensive
He thought about this for a minute, knowing there were several ways a man could spend an evening in a bar like this and he knew each one of them intimately.
His personal view on booze and women is simple, yet complex. You see, good whiskey is pleasing to the eye, it has a rich aroma and a very smooth taste going down. It's consistent from place to place and it didn't leave him feeling like shit the next day, although his pocket was much lighter.
On the other hand, cheap whiskey can fool the eye and appear to be the same as good whiskey. It too, can offer a pleasant aroma, whispers of quality, and occasionally, can go down without a harsh bite. However, it comes with a nasty, lingering aftertaste and a silent guarantee that you'll feel like hammered shit the next day.
True about whiskey and women
Entering, stopping about three feet inside to allow his eyes to adjust, he scans the room. Front to back, side to side.
This will do
Spotting a bar-stool to his left at the end of the aged and battered bar, he rambles closer, alert to everything happening around him.
Close to the bathroom, always a plus
He swings an achy, road-weary leg over his chosen perch, immediately honing in on the sixty-something barmaid blatantly flirting with her customer.
She's been rode hard
As she comes towards him, he glances to his right where three fifty-something females are gathered at a small table, sipping unfamiliar looking drinks.
Wonder who bought their last drink
They give each other a knowing look, and as a group, bestow on him that oh-familiar look of appraisal he's received a million times in the past. Returning the smile, he nods in their direction and turns his attention back to the old bar wench.
“What's your pleasure?” she asks.
He blinks once, slowly turning his gaze back to the old broads. Pulling on the thick, silver chain attached to his worn, leather wallet, he fumbles through the papers inside. With much anticipation, he tosses a crisp, twenty-dollar bill onto the bar and answers the call.
“Anything cheap.”