The Man with the Shovelhead

Same diner out past Franklin I mentioned the other night. What I didn't mention was the '78 Shovelhead parked out front, oil spot under it like a signature, because that one deserves more than a footnote.

Corner booth, denim vest gone soft as an old dollar bill, black coffee, no phone anywhere in sight. Name was Earl. Been riding that same Shovel since Carter was in office. We got to talking the way riders do, which is to say about everything and nothing. Carburetors, ex-wives, which stretch of 96 has the worst crosswind.

He said a bike you keep for forty-some years stops being a machine. More like an old dog that outlived every promise the vet ever made. You don't keep it because it's reliable. You keep it because it knows you.

We rolled out together as far as the Leiper's Fork turnoff. That Shovel shook like a paint mixer at every stop and still sounded better than half the new metal on any dealer lot. He peeled off with two fingers up and never looked back.

The Heritage and I took the long way home. Some rides give you miles, some give you people. This one gave me both.