06/13/2026
ONE BIKE KINDA GUY
It’s Saturday. I wanted to write something fun, but when you are a deep-seeded SOB, it’s hard not to be passionate. Read to the end—this isn't preaching.
I am of Blackfoot Native American blood. This blood has driven most of my life subconsciously, helping me see society clearly. To state it plainly: indigenous spirituality teaches an almost Eastern, Dharmic duality between the violence and the peace throughout life.
That soul-level frequency never sits well with capitalism. I see the cool aspects of capitalism, and I see the demon.
Every single day, I thank whatever spiritual entity you believe in for the way I came up—the good, the bad, and trust me, the even fu***ng uglier. My life has taught me the value of money, but I have become the literal antichrist to capitalist dips**ts who merely buy s**t in bulk thinking they are proving their manhood. It is literal psychological dysfunction to buy a bunch of s**t just to show off for other people, knowing you can’t take it with you when you die.
I could buy a million things, but having one special thing carries the absolute meaning of God over having fifty things that mean nothing.
No offense, but I was raised a soldier. The typical golf t**d country club mentality of getting drunk with your friends, buying twelve cars so they think you’re great, and cheating on your wife with promo models just never struck me as cool. Granted, I got to be a rockstar, so I have nothing left to prove. But pre-dating all of that, that lifestyle never sat right with me. On social media, people are certifiable, screaming for validation while others commend them for having fifty motorcycles and twelve cars. No skin off my dick. But for me, garages are temples of dirt where you earn s**t. Streets are places you use to get somewhere. Stuff is only accumulated when it does the job.
Look at my history with bikes. Around the pandemic, I had an old '74 Ironhead. She was a beautiful old pain in the ass. You could pretend you were riding around like Jason Momoa putting on a show—except I actually worked on her myself. I didn’t pay someone. She was a beautiful piece of s**t, singular, and badass. I bought her when I had nothing and kept her when I had nothing.
Not too long after my wife passed away, it felt like time to let go of the past. Simple as that.
Then I came across the modified 1585cc Fat Boy in the picture. I could run down the specs at the bar to be the big dick in the room, but truth be told, that bitch of a bike just fit me. My native spirit values the experience. When a tool never lets you down, you don't devalue it just for your ego. This bike went on to save my life.
I took her out to wash her this morning and thought about the golf t**ds and their fifty of everything. Nope. I’m not gonna dazzle you with my s**t. I’m not gonna post my acreage, my barn, or all the excessive capitalistic bulls**t the Joneses chase each other over. My native soul taught me something from birth that you have to hunt for on social media:
I am a one-motorcycle kind of guy. I am a one-woman kind of guy.
Having a bunch of s**t doesn’t define the man. Having that one thing you’ve actually worked for, earned, and that shows you love and respect back? That makes you the richest human being on earth. Social media doesn’t have the nuts to tell you that, because if they did, they couldn’t sell you fifty more of them.
Good luck chasing what you’ll never find. I’ll always be happy with my one. The one I not only call mine, but the one I call home.
Full raw article on the site Medium
Ps: Yes, my actual license plate says DOA.
