Myfreeproject !!hot!! Site

I wasn't restoring a motorcycle. I was restoring a part of myself that got buried under performance reviews and mortgage applications.

Last night, it was done. Not perfect—never perfect. The tank had a dent I decided to keep. The left turn signal blinked a little faster than the right. But the engine idled with a low, irregular heartbeat that was entirely its own.

Tomorrow, I'll probably lose the girlfriend. The mortgage is still due. The world is still burning. myfreeproject

They didn't get it.

My boss thinks I'm building a bike to sell. My girlfriend thinks it's a midlife crisis. My neighbor thinks it's an eyesore. I wasn't restoring a motorcycle

They don't know that is the only thing in my life that has never asked me to be anything other than what I am: a guy with dirty hands, a crescent wrench, and the quiet satisfaction of making something dead come back to life.

But tonight, I have a garage, a half-tank of stale gas, and an open road. Not perfect—never perfect

To the world, it was a 1978 Honda CB750. A rusted, seized, forgotten piece of scrap metal my neighbor had paid me fifty dollars to haul away. To my boss, it was a waste of time I could be spending on overtime. To my girlfriend, it was the reason we hadn't been on a date in six weeks.