Brix stared at him.
“For how long?”
Reed shrugged.
“As long as you need.”
Brix swallowed.
“Why?”
Reed didn't have an easy answer.
So he gave the honest one.
“Because somebody should have done it for me once.”
Brix looked at him.
Reed turned away.
“Get some sleep.”
That night, Brix slept in a bed for the first time in months.
Downstairs, Reed stood beside Cormac's Shovelhead.
He put his hand on the tank.
“You would've liked that kid.”
The motorcycle said nothing.
But for some reason, Reed felt less alone.
Cormac's Last Ride
Saturday morning arrived cold.
At 6:15, Cody began filling with motorcycles.
One after another.
Then dozens.
By 6:45, eighty-three bikes stood outside Halvorson Custom Cycles.
Chrome.
Leather.
Denim.
Helmets.
Flags.
Memorial patches.
People came from across Wyoming and Montana.
Some had ridden through the night.
Some had known Cormac for forty years.
Others had only known him for a few.
But all had come.
At the center stood the Shovelhead.
Cormac's Shovelhead.
The motorcycle that had refused to start for eleven weeks.
Now it waited quietly.
Reed stood beside it.
Brix stood nearby wearing new jeans, a new flannel shirt, and boots.
Reed had bought everything the night before.
Brix kept looking at the boots.
“They're too nice.”
“They'll get dirty.”
“I don't want to ruin them.”
“That's what boots are for.”
Brix smiled.
Odom walked over.
“You ready?”
Brix nodded.
“Where do I sit?”
“With Reed.”
“Why?”
“Because he drives the chase truck.”
Brix looked toward the Shovelhead.
“Who's riding it?”
“No one.”
Brix frowned.
“What if it falls?”
“It won't.”
“How do you know?”
Reed smiled.
“Because I built it.”
At 6:58, Reed started the engine.
The Shovelhead came alive immediately.
The sound rolled through the street.
Everyone became silent.
Some riders lowered their heads.
One man wiped his eyes.
Odom walked forward.
He placed his hand on the seat.
“Morning, Cormac.”
Then he stepped back.
At exactly 7:00, they left.
The Shovelhead took the lead.
Riderless.
A light chain connected it to the lead truck.
Reed drove.
Brix sat beside him.
Behind them came eighty-two motorcycles.
The sound was enormous.
For the first thirty miles, nobody spoke.
Brix watched the motorcycle.
It seemed strange.
Almost impossible.
A motorcycle traveling without a rider.
Yet somehow it felt as though Cormac was there.
Brix had never known him.
But he began to understand.
Cormac wasn't simply a man.
He was a story.
And stories could outlive people.
They crossed the Wyoming plains.
Mountains rose in the distance.
The sky turned blue.
The wind pushed against the truck.
Brix looked at Reed.
“Was he always like that?”
“Like what?”
“Important.”
Reed smiled.
“He would've hated that word.”
“Why?”
“Because Cormac didn't think he was important.”
“What did he think?”
“He thought people were important.”
Brix looked ahead.
Reed continued.
“He'd stop for anyone.”
“Even strangers?”
“Especially strangers.”
“Why?”
“Because he remembered what it was like to need help.”
Brix looked down.
Reed noticed.
“You know something?”
“What?”
“Cormac would've understood you.”
Brix didn't answer.
After two hundred miles, they reached the granite bench.
The riders parked in a wide arc.
Eighty-three motorcycles.
No engines.
No conversation.
The mountains surrounded them.
Odom walked toward the bench.
He placed one hand on the granite.
For eleven minutes, everyone stood silently.
Then Odom spoke.
“Brother.”
His voice cracked.
“We got the bike right.”
He paused.
“Rest.”
That was the entire ceremony.
No speeches.
No music.
No long explanation.
Just two words.
The bike was right.
And Cormac could rest.
On the way back, Reed and Brix rode together in the truck.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then Reed said:
“You know how we got the bike right?”
Brix looked at him.
“The ground?”
Reed laughed.
“Kid.”
“Yes?”
“It wasn't just a ground.”
“What was it?”
Reed thought.
“Someone had to notice.”
Brix looked out the window.
“I just looked.”
“Exactly.”
The Apprentice
The first weeks were difficult.
Brix had never worked a normal job.
He didn't know how to fill out paperwork.
He didn't know how taxes worked.
He didn't have a state ID.
He didn't know how to register for school.
He had never had a bank account.
He had never owned a new pair of boots.
Reed helped him with everything.
Odom handled the paperwork.
Wanda made sure he ate.
And the Wind River Riders became a strange kind of extended family.
Some members taught him welding.
Some taught him electrical systems.
Some taught him how to ride.
Others simply sat with him when he needed someone nearby.
But the hardest part was school.
Brix was intelligent.
Very intelligent.
But he had gaps.
Huge ones.
He knew engines.
He knew compression ratios.
He understood electrical circuits.
But fractions confused him.
Grammar was difficult.
History was almost impossible.
He hated writing.
“I don't need this,” he told Reed one night.
Reed looked at him.
“You want to be a mechanic?”