The Leader shook his head.
“Yours.”
“Dad's bike.”
“Your bike.”
The Young Man nodded.
Started the engine.
It coughed.
Then caught.
The Biker Leader heard his brother’s terrible old motorcycle inside that sound.
Not literally.
Memory did not need accuracy.
His eyes filled.
The Young Man smiled.
“Dust?”
“Carburetor fumes.”
“Outside?”
“Very strong fumes.”
The mother laughed.
The miniature toy remained.
Now restored only enough to survive.
Scratches preserved.
Engraving clear.
BROTHERS RIDE FIRST.
The Young Man eventually added something beneath it.
Not engraving.
A tiny removable metal plate.
THEN SONS KEEP MOVING.
The Biker Leader pretended to dislike it.
He did not.
When the Biker Leader turned sixty-five, the club organized a ride.
He threatened everyone involved.
Nobody listened.
The Young Man led.
The Older Biker still rode, though slower.
The Quiet Biker arrived on something newer because apparently knees mattered eventually.
The two once-young bikers had become older riders themselves.
One brought his daughter.
The group stopped at the diner.
The mother placed a cake on the counter.
The Biker Leader stared.
“No.”
Everyone sang anyway.
Terribly.
The Young Man handed him a small box.
Inside was a professionally restored copy of the original miniature motorcycle.
Perfect.
No scars.
No history.
The Biker Leader looked confused.
The Young Man pointed toward the original display.
“This one’s yours.”
“Why?”
“So you stop trying to steal mine.”
The entire diner laughed.
The Biker Leader held the new toy.
Then noticed engraving beneath it.
Different words.
BROTHERS RIDE FIRST. FAMILY FINDS THE ROAD BACK.
The Biker Leader stopped smiling.
The Young Man immediately looked nervous.
“Too much?”
The Leader shook his head.
“No.”
He cleared his throat.
“Cheesy.”
“Very.”
The Leader pulled him into a hug.
No warning.
The Young Man stiffened.
Then hugged back.
That photograph later sat beside the old photograph.
Decades apart.
Two generations.
Same stupid little motorcycle between them.
The Biker Leader aged.
Road miles became harder.
Back worse.
Hands slower.
Night riding stopped.
Then long rides.
Then winter.
The Young Man never pushed.
That mattered.
One afternoon, the Leader handed him a ring of keys.
Clubhouse.
Garage.
Storage.
Motorcycle.
The Young Man looked at them.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re still riding.”
“Some.”
“Then keep them.”
The Leader sighed.