The text on my phone read, “Hi Phil, hope this message finds you well. I bought me a Harley. Going to sell the Honda. Giving you first dibs. You interested?”
The previous three years had been particularly tough ones. At the end of 2015, after struggling for several years to make things work in my longtime home of Atlanta, Georgia, I was out of moves. Working 12-hour days in a tractor factory in north Georgia, some 50 miles one-way from where I was living, it had long since gotten to the point that I was asking myself, “Why am I doing this?” I had no good answer.
Atlanta had been my home for more than 30 years. In my time there, I had made many good friends, built a career in engineering, and had played music in the Atlanta jazz community for most of my adult life. I knew the city intimately, and the mountains surrounding it; riding through the beautiful made-for-motorcycling roads, the seasons, the changing colors. Beauty to the eyes and a balm to the soul. It was a lot to give up.