On the eve of his sixty-fifth birthday, Arthur officially retired. His colleagues gifted him a silver watch and a polite applause. As he walked out of the glass building for the very last time, the watch felt heavy on his wrist. It was a countdown to a quiet, stationary life.
The shop owner, an old man with a grey beard reaching his chest, stepped outside. born_to_be_wild
Three weeks later, the grey suits were gone. Arthur stood in his driveway wearing a thick, worn-in leather jacket and a pair of sturdy boots. He straddled the heavy machine, turned the key, and kicked the starter. On the eve of his sixty-fifth birthday, Arthur
"I think I was just born to be wild," he said. "It just took me sixty-five years to realize it." It was a countdown to a quiet, stationary life
He walked past his usual bus stop. He kept walking until he found himself standing in front of a weathered, neon-lit storefront on the edge of town. Behind the glass sat a 1970s vintage motorcycle. It had a chipped black paint job, exposed chrome pipes, and a leather seat that looked like it had seen a thousand rainstorms.
"She's a beast," the owner said. "Hard to control if you don't know what you're doing."