The old ones stand out now, their numbers dwindling down. They're a sad loss to the American scene, these individualists with the worn down clothes and faces. You can still see them sometimes, the real ones, some in packs, not as large as a while ago, sometimes alone.
The alone one is the best.
One who's been there a long time, staying in the life he loves, never giving into a system that sucks you up like a vortex if you slip just one foot into it. He's got his connections - a few like him that care for and protect each other. Hanging onto the only unique lifestyle left, like old dinosaurs, their faces are leathered and rough by forty, but their eyes still sharp and knowing.

Some are gray in the beards and braids, some are limp in the step and some pain in the kidneys. Still they know that no other life is life, but merely a dreary journey into everyone else's monotony. He looks at the new ones, then turns away, knowing they will never know of life on the road and of the women who can take it. Wild, loving women who'll hang in with them, because they love it too. A woman with a wild heart and a loyal soul, that's what's needed here.

The new ones are shiny and young and a bit too clean. They're born into a system that has an iron grip now. The new one's will never know and couldn't take "the life."

I think it's a mystery, even to the old ones, why this life is theirs, but it is, and it's the only one.
When the last biker falls, like the dinosaurs, the sun will go down on a breed of heart-of-gold, tough as nails, free spirited men, who even at their worst, love what's theirs and protect it. In a world-wide system that is making all people as alike as manufactured dolls, the earth will be a duller place....
When the last biker falls.