Born_to_be_wild

He walked past his usual bus stop. He kept walking until he found himself standing in front of a weathered, neon-lit storefront on the edge of town. Behind the glass sat a 1970s vintage motorcycle. It had a chipped black paint job, exposed chrome pipes, and a leather seat that looked like it had seen a thousand rainstorms.

Three weeks later, the grey suits were gone. Arthur stood in his driveway wearing a thick, worn-in leather jacket and a pair of sturdy boots. He straddled the heavy machine, turned the key, and kicked the starter. born_to_be_wild

"I think I was just born to be wild," he said. "It just took me sixty-five years to realize it." He walked past his usual bus stop