rain...

Rain like knives. The storm hitting sideways, wind howling, screaming, trying to rip me loose. The Pacific below, black and furious, waves tearing at the cliffs. The road ahead—a slick, winding thing, twisting through the chaos. I don’t think. I just go. Fast. Faster.

The rain eases.  The storm lost interest. The sky, torn open, bleeds blue and gold over the highway, over the cliffs, over the Pacific rolling endless and black.

I stand there, my heart hammering in my ears. The ‘37 Flathead sits off to the side, steaming, tilted just enough to say it won’t be riding out of here. The frame—twisted. Something’s bent, something’s broken. I don’t check. I don’t need to. It’s out of commission. For now.

The ‘48 Panhead. Oily. Loud. Built for this. The seat feels different. The bars sit higher. The weight shifts under me like a second chance. I kick. Once. Twice. Fire. The beast wakes up angry. The sound echoes off the wet pavement, off the empty highway, off the last remnants of the storm.

The Northern Dream Jacket—shearling lined, soaked through, but unyielding—holds the memory of the ride, the crash, the road. The Black Bear Brand jeans, worn but untouched, carry the proof. No rips. No tears. No questions.
The storm is done. The sun is rising. The road is waiting.