I sold the bike just two weeks after the funeral. I couldn’t face it—every inch of that Harley reminded me of Mia: her laugh, her grip on my waist, our rides together. After the accident took her, I parked it and never touched it. Riding alone felt wrong and dangerous; I had two kids to look after.
I told myself letting the bike go was part of moving on. But my kids—Jace and Lila—never truly accepted it. They still saw the bike as a symbol of our life before everything fell apart.
Then one day, they came running inside. “Dad, there’s a man on your bike!” Outside, a guy rode slowly down the street, the flames on the tank still shining bright. It was my bike, but with someone else on it.
The next morning, the man—Rick—showed up, introduced himself, and handed me a flyer for a biker’s club called the Iron Circle Riders. He explained they were a support group for people dealing with loss and trauma, riding together as a form of therapy. He offered to sell me the bike back if I joined one ride.
I was hesitant but agreed.
That Sunday, I rode with them—quiet, respectful people who understood pain. At lunch, a woman asked about Mia, and I found myself sharing stories I hadn’t spoken aloud in weeks. She told me Mia would be proud of me.
At the end of the ride, Rick handed me the keys.
“It’s yours if you want it.”
I took the bike back.
That night, my kids waited on the porch, excited. We rode just around the neighborhood, their laughter filling the air. Mia was gone, but I felt something new—hope.
Maybe selling the bike wasn’t the mistake. Maybe the mistake was thinking I had to ride alone.
Would you take the bike back?
Leave a Reply