The Biker Spirit Never Dies

Breaker was still in a quandary when someone spoke to him from the porch of the old house. “What‘n the hell was that?” the man asked.

“Just two guys in an awesome pickup that gave me a ride here after I broke down” Breaker said. The man then invited him to have a drink and take the chill off.

“Come on in and tell us all about it”, he said as Breaker approached the steps. Breaker walked inside the old house, turned in to a bar, replete with pool table and juke box softly playing an old Eric Clapton tune, Slow Hand. Several veterans of the two wheeled life sat around the bar and eyed him with the respectful curiosity all bikers give strangers until they get to know them. Breaker introduced himself to everyone telling them where he was from and explaining what happened to him up the road.

When he got to the part where he described the pickup and told them the names of the two men who had helped him, everyone went dead silent. Every eye in the place seemed to bore into him like a diamond drill bit. Breaker looked around the room and asked “What did I say”.

Just then one of the grizzled bikers got up from his stool walked over to him. He had a limp from what was obviously a prosthetic leg, and with a friendly pat on his shoulder said “Come on son, lets go have look at that bike of yours”.

Breaker was uneasy about the sudden interruption to his story but agreed and walked out with this stranger to his bike, while the rest of people in the bar followed. Breaker thought now he had really done something wrong and was starting to worry.

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