Cool Bike, Man

Melbourne held me at the lights. My black Triumph Street Triple 765 rumbled beneath me, steady but restless, its three-cylinder heartbeat thrumming in my bones. My knees ached — not just from age, but from a long recovery. The injury had nearly taken riding from me. Months of rebuilding, almost back to full strength now, but still stiff, still uncertain.

On the pillion sat Time, murmuring in my ear.
At the bars leaned Risk, his whisper sharper.

Time: “The old man is waiting, Jim. Don’t fight him. Let him in.”
Risk: “Your body failed once. It can fail again. One mistake is enough.”
The red light pinned me still — Time and Risk breathe at my side, confidence wavers.

That’s the bargain of motorcycling. Freedom never comes without risk. And confidence, once shaken, is slower to return than strength.

The crossing filled. A group of young people moved through, laughter rising above the city hum. One of the girls glanced at me, caught the stiffness in my posture, and looked away — verdict written in her eyes: the rider fading, the man behind the machine.

But the boy’s gaze went straight to the bike. He saw the gleam of the black tank, the taut frame, the triple headlights glaring down the street. His grin widened, his thumb lifted, and his voice cracked the dusk:
“Cool bike, man!”

Three words split the dusk, engine deepens in reply, ghosts slip from their hold.

The words weren’t meant for me, but for the machine. And yet the bike is not separate from me — it carries my choices, my persistence, my long recovery through injury and doubt. He wasn’t saying I was cool. But in that instant, he reminded me of what I still am when I ride.

The Triumph’s growl deepened, my spine straightened, and even my knees forgot their doubt.

Time: “You’ll pay later. You always do.”
Every road bends back, all bright moments end with me, I wait on the pillion.

But his voice was fading.

Risk: “One slip, one moment, and it’s over.”
One slip is enough, sweet confidence rides the edge, I sharpen the wind.

But he was already backing into the shadows.

The girl looked again — but differently this time. She had seen stiffness; now she saw the rider, not the ache. She smiled. The boy was already laughing with his friends, unaware of what he had sparked.

The light turned green. I tightened my legs against the tank — and the pain vanished, replaced by steadiness and control. I gripped harder, stronger, daring the shadows to test me. The Triumph’s roar didn’t drown them — it defied them.

Pain turns into steel, legs locked firm, the road is mine, shadows fall behind.

Three voices, two shadows, and a bike. His shout, her smile, my confidence renewed. And I thought: life isn’t about losing shadows, but about the flashes of light that make them fade.