Author: John Butler

When you think of the golden age of American motorcycling, few machines capture the spirit and craftsmanship of that era…

When my eighteen-year-old son asked to buy a motorcycle, all I could see was my best friend’s body broken at…

I never imagined having to tell twenty grizzled old bikers that I couldn’t afford my wife’s funeral, but standing in…

They’re bulldozing my bar tomorrow morning. Thirty-seven years of Roadhouse Charlie’s—the last true biker stop on Route 66—wiped out because…

They say a man shouldn’t cry over machines, but I wept when I had to sell my Harley I rode…

I always hated my father because he was a motorcycle mechanic, not a doctor or lawyer like my friends’ parents.…

The old biker who was my neighbor died saving my life, and I had spent years hating him because of…

“You need to stop riding, Mr. Henderson. Immediately.” Five words from a doctor in a white coat, and just like…

My Son who hasn’t talked to me for years died in a bike accident when he was finally coming to…

My son was ashamed to introduce me to his fiancée’s parents. For forty-three years, I’d worn the leather vest with…