I sold the bike two weeks after the funeral.
Didn’t even wait a month. Couldn’t stand to look at it. Every inch of chrome reminded me of her arms wrapped around me, her laugh in my ear, her pink helmet she insisted on wearing even though it clashed with everything.
Riding was our thing. And once she was gone, it felt wrong to do it alone. It felt dangerous. I couldn’t risk something happening to me too, leaving my kids alone.
I told myself it was just a machine. Letting it go was moving on.
But that lie never sat right—not with me, and not with the kids.
They never said much, just watched quietly every time I passed that empty spot in the garage.
Until yesterday.
They came running inside, shouting over each other, faces flushed like they’d just seen a ghost.
“Dad! There’s a man on your bike!”
“At the end of the street! It’s yours! The black one with the flame on the side—you painted that flame!”
I stepped onto the porch just in time to see him cruise past slow—like he was sightseeing. And yeah… it was mine. No mistaking it.
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“Looks like it’s in good hands,” I said with half a smile, and walked back inside.
But this morning, just after breakfast, I heard the rumble.
I walked outside… and there he was. The guy from yesterday. Sitting on the bike at the curb. Helmet off. Smiling.
He waved me over and said, “They told me everything. I think maybe this will help.”
Then he pulled something from his pocket—
It was a small keychain. Worn leather. Faded initials etched into it: S + D.
My wife had made it for me on our first anniversary. I thought I lost it years ago.
My knees nearly buckled.
“I found it wedged under the seat,” he said. “Didn’t feel right keeping it.”
I took it from him with trembling fingers. “Thank you,” I managed to say.
He hesitated, then added, “I don’t know if this is overstepping, but… I’d be willing to sell it back. Or even better—let you take it for a ride anytime you want.”
I looked at the kids watching from the porch. Their eyes wide. Hopeful.
“I don’t think I’m ready to ride alone,” I said quietly. Then, almost without thinking, I added, “But maybe… we ride together?”
The man grinned. “That sounds just right.”
Later that evening, the kids sat in the sidecar, helmets too big and grins even bigger. I kicked up the stand, the engine growled to life, and for the first time in a long time…
I didn’t feel like I was leaving her behind.
I felt like I was bringing her with me.
And I wasn’t moving on. I was moving forward.
Together.
THE BIKE CHOSE US BOTH
We didn’t go far—just a quiet loop around the block. The kids squealed with joy in the sidecar, their laughter like music through the wind.
When we parked back in the driveway, the man—his name was Jack—stayed quiet for a moment, just resting his hands on the handlebars like he didn’t want to let go.
“You know,” he finally said, “I almost didn’t buy it.”
I raised a brow. “What changed your mind?”
He looked up at me, his expression gentler now. “The guy who sold it to me didn’t say much, but he mentioned it belonged to someone who lost his wife. Said the bike had… memories in it. Sad ones.”
I nodded slowly, swallowing hard.
“I’d just lost someone, too,” Jack continued. “Not a wife. My brother. He was the one who taught me to ride. We used to talk about restoring a bike together. When I saw yours, with the flame detail and the wear on the grips—it felt like it was meant to keep being part of someone’s story. Not locked away.”
There was a silence between us, but it wasn’t awkward. It was full. Full of understanding, of grief, of something neither of us had words for.
He looked at the kids. “They told me she used to ride with you. That she wore a ridiculous pink helmet.” He smiled. “They miss her in the way kids do—out loud and in silence, both.”
I nodded. “She made everything brighter. Even the road.”
Jack stood, brushing dust from his jeans. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “You can take the bike whenever you want. No strings. But if you ever feel like you’re ready to take it back… I won’t stand in your way.”
I was quiet for a long time before answering. “I think… the bike chose us both for a reason.”
He smiled, eyes glassy. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”
Then he looked down at the keychain still in my hand.
“Keep that,” he said. “It belongs with you.”
That night, after the kids went to bed, I went into the garage. Stared at the empty space again. Only this time, it didn’t feel so empty.
And I made a quiet promise:
I won’t forget her.
I won’t forget the joy.
And I won’t let the road scare me anymore.
Because some rides are meant to be shared—even if the seat beside you is only filled with memories.
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