Mason studied the old man.
“Where are you going?”
“North.”
“How far?”
“About seventy miles.”
Mason stared at him.
“You're not riding this seventy miles.”
Arthur's expression didn't change.
“I am if she starts.”
“You might make seven.”
“Then I'll push the rest.”
The shop went silent.
Mason stepped closer.
“Why?”
Arthur looked down.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then his fingers touched the cracked leather seat.
“She was my boy's.”
Mason's eyes moved toward the motorcycle.
“What happened to him?”
Arthur swallowed.
“Cancer.”
Nobody laughed anymore.
Arthur stared at the worn leather.
“Daniel was forty-two.”
His fingers trembled.
“He spent eighteen months fighting it. Every time the doctors told him to slow down, he told them motorcycles didn't know how to go slow.”
Mason crouched beside the motorcycle.
“What is it?”
“Nineteen seventy-eight Shovelhead.”
Mason looked closer.
Beneath the rust were custom brackets, hand-shaped welds, an old air cleaner, and a repaired primary cover.
This motorcycle hadn't been neglected because nobody cared about it.
It had been kept alive because somebody cared too much to replace it.
Arthur looked at Mason.
“Daniel built most of her himself.”
“Your son was a mechanic?”
“Electrician.”
Mason smiled faintly.
“That explains some of the wiring.”
Arthur smiled too.
Then his expression changed.
“His memorial ride is today.”
Mason looked at the clock.
“What time?”
“Two.”
It was already 10:31.
Arthur pulled an old photograph from his jacket.
It showed a younger Daniel sitting on the same motorcycle when it was black, polished, and beautiful.
Behind him stood twenty or thirty bikers.
Arthur pointed at the photograph.
“Every August, his friends ride from St. Matthew's Cemetery to Pine Ridge Overlook.”
Mason looked at the photograph.
“How many came last year?”
“Eleven.”
“And the year before?”
“Seventeen.”
Arthur folded the photograph carefully.
“This might be the last.”
Mason looked at the motorcycle.
Then at the old man.
“Let's get to work.”
The Diagnosis
The motorcycle went onto the lift.
Mason called his mechanics over.
“Tyler. Compression test.”
“Got it.”
“Luis, drain the oil.”
“On it.”
“Cam, pull the plugs.”
The shop came alive.
Arthur stood against the wall, watching.
“You don't need four men.”
Mason didn't look up.
“You said two o'clock.”
“I did.”
“Then stop wasting my time arguing.”
Arthur smiled.
“Yes, sir.”
Thirty minutes later, Mason's clipboard contained a list that looked like a death sentence.
Fuel line.
Battery.
Spark plugs.
Front tire.
Oil leak at the rocker box.
Loose exhaust mount.
Cracked throttle cable housing.
Rear brake badly adjusted.