The world doesn’t typically seem like a place of profound, interwoven mysteries at the age of twenty-nine. There seem to be numerous logistical obstacles. My automobile had finally given up on me, leaving me in a terrible financial condition, so I was constantly experiencing low-level worry. I just needed a means to go to my shift on time without spending half of my paycheck on ride-sharing; I didn’t need a legacy or a story. When I scrolled past a listing for a ninety-eight-dollar Harley-Davidson, I was in that state of mind.
The cost was ridiculous. Usually, even a corroded frame without an engine sells for more than that. I thought it was an error or a trick, but you can believe in miracles when you’re desperate. After getting in touch with the vendor, I ended myself at a dilapidated, unnamed repair shop outside of town. The scent of smoke, cold iron, and old grease filled the air. The man behind the counter had eyes clouded with the kind of weariness that sleep cannot cure, and he was as exhausted as the machinery he surrounded himself with.
On the bike, he made no attempt to sell me. He didn’t brag about its history or horsepower. With a piercing intensity, he stared at me and asked if I had any relatives or friends around. He growled and took my ninety-eight dollars when I informed him I was primarily on my own, struggling to make ends meet. He gave me the keys and a small piece of yellowed paper that had been tightly folded into a square. I should keep it with the bike, he advised. I didn’t even look at the paper as I stuffed it into my pocket since I was so focused on the difficulties of lugging a dead motorcycle two kilometers to my flat.
The bike was a complete disaster. Covered in a thin film of orange rust that resembled dried blood at dusk, it was a skeleton of its former splendor. With my hands stained black and my muscles screaming, it took me hours to get it home. However, there was something about its weight that made it feel unlike any machine I had ever worked with. It seemed like a heavy secret rather than a pile of trash.
With a jug of fresh gasoline and a little toolbox, I drove it to an empty parking lot in Riverside the following morning in the hopes of reviving the engine. The environment shifted while I was deep within the machine’s mechanical core. It began as a quiet, rhythmic thrum that developed into a roar in the soles of my boots. Motorcycles started to arrive in the lot one by one. These were seasoned riders on bikes that had traveled thousands of miles on asphalt, not weekend warriors on brand-new cruisers. They just created a large, silent circle around me and my ninety-eight-dollar Harley without yelling or threatening.
A man emerged from the group. His face was remarkably soft despite the patches all over his leather vest. He didn’t inquire as to where I had taken the bike. He didn’t ask me to give it to him. He only asked to see the paper and gestured to my pocket.
I took out the folded square and gave it to him. The other cyclists leaned in as he unfolded it. There was complete quiet. Nine names and nine dates were written on that paper in a tight, steady hand. A hand-drawn sign of a gear entwined with a willow branch was placed beneath them. I saw the man’s jaw tighten as he approached the end of the list, his eyes following it.
He took some time to explain. Rather, he pulled a picture out of his own pocket. The man who had sold me the bike was younger in this photo, which was shot decades ago. He appeared lively and unstoppable as he stood next to this very motorcycle. Nine more men, all leaning on their machines and laughing, surrounded him. The man in the parking lot gestured to the names on my list after pointing to the faces in the picture.
He whispered to me, “This bike shouldn’t be running.” “But it’s the only one that made it out alive.”
The gang in the picture was a road-bound brotherhood that had participated in a cross-country race years prior. During a mountain storm, they had come across an odd piece of black ice and a collapsing bridge. The town was devastated by the incident, which made local headlines. That evening, nine bikers lost their lives. Out of all the devastation, just one man and one motorcycle survived. The man who had sold me the bike for ninety-eight dollars was the survivor.
For years, he had kept the machine in his shop since he couldn’t ride it or discard it. It served as a somber reminder of the night his life was irrevocably altered and a monument to his slain brothers. But as he became older, he understood that a monument shouldn’t be left to gather dust in the dark. He wanted it to go to the proper person, someone who genuinely needed a way forward rather than someone searching for a vintage project to flip for a profit. He was transforming a symbol of death into a tool for life by selling it to me at a price I could afford.
The riders in the parking lot weren’t there to take back the past. They were the people who had maintained contact with the elderly man throughout the years, the surviving members of that fraternity. They had came to check who was holding the torch after seeing the listing.
The men dismounted without a word of command. They regarded me like a temporary custodian rather than as an outsider. They worked with me on the bike for the next three hours. They expertly cleaned the carburetor, replaced the fouled plugs, and adjusted the chain. I learned about the engine’s peculiarities, how it preferred to be throttled, and the noises I should be aware of. In order to guarantee that the ship bearing those nine names would remain upright on the road, they were transmitting the machine’s oral history.
The engine roared with a deep, hearty growl that seemed to resonate through my bones when it eventually turned over, rather than merely rattling. The lead rider gave a single, silent nod of approval. There were no lofty pronouncements about the sacredness of the road or camaraderie. They made no requests for favors or money. All they told me to do was keep the rubber side down and keep going.
The gravity of the situation eventually dawned on me as they rode out of the lot, leaving me by myself with the idle Harley. I needed a ride to work and was broke, so I got a motorcycle. However, I had inherited something much more important. I was riding a piece of history that love had preserved and tragedy had shaped.
The rust on the fenders now appeared to be a patina of survival rather than an unsightly condition. These nine names come to mind every time I start that engine. Although I don’t belong to their club and am not a biker in the conventional sense, I am aware of the responsibilities associated with the road I’m on. Although we frequently believe that we own the items we purchase, some items are too burdened by the past to ever fully belong to one individual. I am merely the present driver, transporting nine men’s legacies across the miles and ensuring that their narrative continues, even in the dark.