Is this some kind of joke? asked the young officer as she stepped out of the patrol car with a mocking look. James Harris, 82 years old, remained still on his motorcycle, hands steady on the handlebars, his calm eyes fixed on the horizon. The officers exchanged impatient glances. License and registration and get off the bike now, sir. Her voice was firm. She wore mirrored sunglasses, one hand already resting on her holstered weapon. What they didn’t know was that, in just a few minutes, 50 soldiers led by a captain would arrive in Humvees, looking for whoever had dared to stop James Harris.
James Harris has been waking up at 5 in the morning every day for the past 40 years. Discipline still runs through his veins. His small farm sits about 10 miles outside of town. Yesterday, his 1978 John Deere tractor broke down, apart from the hydraulic system. Harris knows exactly which part it is.
42 years of fixing machines teaches a man to recognize every bolt, every gear. In the old rusty garage, Harris keeps a 1970 Harley Davidson shovelhead. The engine roars like thunder.
He doesn’t care about appearances. The bike works. It gets him where he needs to go.
That’s enough. At 82, he rides better than most men in their 20s. Reflexes sharpened by decades of military training, always aware of his surroundings, a situational awareness that never left him.
But of course, no one sees that when all they notice is an old man on an old bike. Life’s irony is cruel. Those with the most to teach are often the ones who look like they have nothing to say.
The traffic light turned red at the entrance to town. Harris stopped the Harley beside the gas station where he usually filled up. The engine kept rumbling, a deep, steady sound that echoed between houses and storefronts.
That low roar of the old 1970 Harley shovelhead fell silent the moment he saw flashing police lights in his rearview mirror. Officer Ava Johnson walked toward the bike with long, confident strides, mirrored sunglasses, 28 years old, three years on the city patrol. Is this a joke? She said with a mocking tone as she stepped out of the cruiser.
Sir, shut off that junk right now. Harris didn’t move, still sitting on the bike, hands steady on the handlebars, eyes calm, locked on the horizon. The officers exchanged impatient looks.
License and registration and step off the motorcycle, now. Johnson’s voice was firm, one hand already resting on her weapon. He handed over the documents without rushing, everything neatly organized inside a worn-out brown leather wallet.
Johnson looked at the license with suspicion. Eighty-two years old? Don’t you think you’re a little too old to be riding a motorcycle? Officer David Lopez walked up, grinning. He looked the bike over from top to bottom.
Man, this Harley’s older than my dad. Look at all that rust. Hands on the bike, sir.
Feet apart, Johnson ordered. The search was unnecessary and they both knew it, but they did it anyway. A small crowd began to form.
Murmurs filled the air. Mr. Harris, where do you live? On a farm nearby, right off Highway 340. Alone? Alone.
Johnson exchanged a glance with Lopez. It said, another confused old man. Do you have family? Anyone who takes care of you? I’ve been taking care of myself for eighty-two years.
Yes, but don’t you think it’s dangerous to ride that motorcycle at your age? You could cause an accident. Hurt someone. Harris stayed silent, his eyes fixed on the horizon, hands clasped behind his back.
Sir, I’m talking to you. I’m listening. Then answer me.
Don’t you think it’s irresponsible to ride an old bike like that at your age? Lopez leaned in and whispered to Johnson. I think he might be a little deaf too. Look at him, just standing there, barely responding.
Johnson raised her voice. Mr. Harris, can you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying? The crowd grew. So did the voices.
Poor old man. Don’t these cops have better things to do? He does look kind of confused. Somebody should call his family.