After fifty years riding, I collapsed trying to lift my Harley at Sturgis—my brothers laughed, pity in their eyes. At 72, my strength had faded, and for the first time, I felt like a burden. Razor, the new club president, suggested a trike. That night, I sat alone, reflecting on the years and battles behind each patch on my jacket. The next morning, Razor told me to retire my patch—I was “slowing them down.”

Refusing to fade quietly, I called Tommy, an old brother turned trauma surgeon. He gave me stem cell treatment for my knees and told me about the Medicine Wheel Run—a 500-mile endurance ride. I entered. Razor mocked me, but I said, “If I lose my patch, it’ll be on the road.”

Through exhaustion and pain, I finished the run. Only 37 riders made it. Word spread: the old man had finished. Razor approached me with newfound respect—the club voted, my patch stayed for life. He asked me to lead the next ride. I agreed, not as a relic, but as the ghost of what the club used to be. Now, young riders ask me for stories, and I ride on—for the brotherhood, for the ghosts who came before.