“The Ghost That Roared”

It was at Sturgis, where my pride would be tested. At 72, I was no longer the man I used to be. My bike, my brotherhood, my way of life—it all felt like a distant memory. After a fall that embarrassed me in front of my brothers, I was dismissed by Razor, the new president. They said it was time for me to retire my patch. It crushed me.

The next day, I found myself in front of a challenge. Five hundred miles through the Black Hills, a test of endurance known as the Medicine Wheel Run. I knew my knees were shot, but it wasn’t about physical strength—it was about heart. I didn’t want to be just another old man who was forgotten. I wanted to remind them of what the road truly meant.

After struggling through pain, I completed the run, earning the respect of younger riders. Razor, who had dismissed me, came to me with a different offer: my patch stays. They now respected the ghost of what the club used to be. My place in the brotherhood wasn’t based on age, but on my spirit.

I rode as the ghost of the road. The legacy of the club. And now, the young riders knew—true strength doesn’t fade; it lives on in the stories we leave behind.