I sold the bike not long after we buried her.
Just two weeks after the funeral, I wheeled it out of the garage and let it go. I couldn’t bear the sight of it—the matte black Harley with flame detailing. Every part of it reminded me of Mia—her laugh in my ear, her arms wrapped tight around me, that ridiculous pink helmet she wore with zero shame. It had been our escape, our therapy, our shared freedom.
But when she was killed—when a drunk driver blew through a red light and stole her from us—I parked the Harley and never rode again. Not once. It wasn’t just the grief. It was the fear. I had kids now. I couldn’t take risks.
So I told myself it was just a bike. That selling it was part of moving forward. That’s what they all say, right?
But some things aren’t that easy to leave behind.
I’d caught my son, Jace, tracing his fingers along the tank the day before it left. My daughter, Lila, who rarely said much, went quiet for days after the garage felt emptier. They didn’t say anything outright—but they knew it wasn’t just a machine.
So yesterday, when both kids came barreling through the door yelling like something was on fire, I braced myself.
“Dad! We saw someone riding your Harley!”
“The one with the flames—you painted those!”
I followed them outside. At the far end of the street, a man coasted past slowly, riding my old bike like it was brand new. It gleamed under the sun. The paint looked untouched. It was mine—just with someone else on it.
“Looks like it found a good home,” I muttered, though my chest tightened with something deeper than regret.
The next morning, I was still stewing over it while making breakfast. The kids kept glancing at each other like they were in on a secret.
Then I heard it. That low, familiar rumble.
I stepped outside.
There he was—parked at the curb. The rider. Helmet off now, face lined with sun and time, a calm smile softening his weathered look.
“Morning,” he called. “Mind if I chat for a minute?”
I walked over. He stuck out his hand.
“I’m Rick.”
“Nate,” I replied.
“Your kids told me about you yesterday,” he said. “Once they saw the Harley, I wasn’t a stranger anymore. They lit up talking about the flames, your rides, their mom…”
I nodded, unsure what to say.
“I know this is odd,” Rick continued, pulling something from his jacket. “But after that conversation, I wanted to give you this.”
It was a flyer. A local rider group—The Iron Circle Riders.
It read: Weekend rides. No one rides alone.
“We meet on Sundays,” Rick said. “A group of folks who’ve all been through stuff—loss, trauma, the kind of things that ride shotgun in your life whether you want them to or not. We ride together. It helps.”
I stared at the flyer.
“My brother died in a crash,” he added quietly. “I didn’t think I’d ride again either. Then I found this group.”
He paused. “If you want the bike back, I’ll sell it—same price I paid. No catch. But only if you come on one ride first. Just one.”
I didn’t answer right away.
“You’d really give it back?” I asked.
“I’d rather see it with someone who gets it,” he said simply. “That bike still has your story in it.”
That Sunday, I showed up at a gas station off Route 7. Wore my old jacket, boots stiff with dust and memory. Rick greeted me with a nod. The other riders were already there—some seasoned, others clearly new, all quiet, respectful. No loud revving or grandstanding. Just presence.
We rode forty miles through winding roads, hills soft with morning light. I didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The wind filled the silence in ways words couldn’t.
At the diner stop, a woman named Tasha sat beside me. She asked about Mia. For the first time in a long while, I said her name out loud. Told her the story—how we met, danced in the kitchen, lost her in a blink.
“She’d be proud,” Tasha said, resting a hand on my arm. “You got back on.”
I didn’t answer. But I felt it. Something shifting.
When we finished the ride, Rick handed me a key.
“She’s yours,” he said.
I looked at the Harley—at my Harley—and felt my hands tremble. But not from fear. From possibility.
“I’ll take her,” I said.
That night, when I rolled into the driveway, the kids were already waiting.
“You got it back?” Lila asked, eyes wide.
“Yup,” I said, handing them helmets. “You ready for a ride?”
We didn’t go far. Just a few loops around the block. But their laughter, the wind, the echo of something we’d lost coming back to life—it was like breathing again after being underwater for too long.
Mia was still gone. That wouldn’t change. But for the first time, my grief wasn’t the only thing in the seat beside me.
There was space now—for healing. For hope. For the road ahead.
Maybe selling the bike wasn’t the mistake.
Maybe thinking I had to ride alone was.