I didn’t grow up rich. My dad was a mechanic — not the clean, clipboard-type with Snap-on tools, but the kind who fixed things with busted knuckles and a cigarette hanging from his lip.
Our garage smelled like old oil, coffee, and the AM radio. And that garage is where I fell in love with engines.
When I was sixteen, I bought a '66 Har-ley Panhead with money I earned washing dishes and mowing lawns. It didn’t even run. My friends thought I was nuts. But I didn’t care.
Every night, I was out there, scraping my hands, burning my arms, learning that motor’s rhythm like it was alive.At sixteen, while other kids were playing ball, I was elbow-deep in carburetors.
One night — I still remember it like a scene from a movie — I kicked it over and it roared to life. I didn’t even have a helmet on. Just took off barefoot down the county road, stars above, wind tearing through my shirt, laughing like a maniac.
That was the first time I felt truly free.
That bike carried me through everything.
Across state lines.
To weddings.
To funerals.
When my dad died, I didn’t cry.
I just rode.
But life doesn’t stay wide open forever.
I met someone. Got married. Had a daughter. Then a mortgage. Then a second job.
The Har-ley sat in the garage more than it didn’t. Chrome dulled. Battery died. One day, I realized I hadn’t ridden it in two years—and I hadn’t even noticed.
Now I’m 47. My knees ache. My daughter’s off at college. My hearing’s shot from years of straight pipes and dumb choices.
The Panhead’s still there. Still mine. But I can barely kick it over without needing an ice pack and a beer.
Even after I settled down, motorcycles never really left me.
They were in the way I leaned into the wind when driving with the window down.
In the way I tuned my kid’s first dirt bike.
In the quiet Sunday mornings when I’d crack open the garage door just to hear the neighbor’s Shovelhead rumble three blocks away.
Life got louder than engines for a while—kids, bills, back pain.
The garage got cluttered. The leathers got stiff.
The dreams of long rides faded into oil stains and half-packed boxes.
And truth be told, I never cared for model engines. Thought they were just shelf candy—nice to look at, but dead inside.
So when I saw a short video online of a guy kickstarting this tiny gas-powered engine—looked like a miniature Har-ley—I rolled my eyes.
But something in that sound…
That faint pop-pop-pop.
The way it vibrated on the stand.
The rocker arms moving like tiny lungs.
It didn’t look like a toy.
It looked like a memory.
Like someone had bottled the feeling of starting your first bike—and shrunk it down to fit in your hand.
So I bought the CISON V2. Didn’t even tell my wife.
When it arrived, I put it on my bench. Filled the tank. Took a deep breath.
First kick—nothing.
Second—still nothing.
Third kick—it coughed, then sputtered, then came alive.
I froze.
No phone. No video.
Just me, the engine, and that sound.
Like the ghosts of every ride I ever took were whispering back through it.
I stood there for a long time.
Didn’t say a word.
Just listened.
And yeah, I cried a little. Quietly. Like a man hearing from an old friend after decades of silence.
That model didn’t replace my bike.
But it reminded me why I ever loved motorcycles in the first place.
This year, I picked up the new one—the MUSA Hoglet V2.
Bit heavier. Runs smoother. Kickstart’s more solid. Looks less like a Panhead, but it feels like one in its own way.
The flywheel gives it that nice low idle, the timing belt hums like a heartbeat.
Now they both sit on my bench. Side by side.
Not loud. Not fast.
But true.
Every time I fire one up, I swear—something inside me wakes up.
Not the place I live now.
But the version of me I left out there on some road between then and now.
The kid who rode barefoot into the stars, chasing freedom on a Har-ley he built with his own hands.
Maybe I can't ride like I used to.
But I still carry the engine inside me.
Sometimes, all we need is a spark.
A sound.
A memory.
Something small enough to sit on a desk—
but powerful enough to remind us who we are.
by Geri Brown
2025/7/9
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