It was a warm afternoon in Clay, West Virginia, when our motorcycle group pulled into a small gas station to rest and refuel. We were laughing, chatting, stretching our legs after hours on the road — just another stop on a long ride. That’s when she appeared.
An elderly woman, dressed in a patterned blouse and wearing bright red sunglasses, approached us with the biggest smile. “Excuse me,” she said softly, “would one of you let me sit on your motorcycle for a picture? I can pay you twenty dollars. It’s on my bucket list.”
Her voice carried the kind of warmth that makes strangers stop and listen. She explained that she wanted to send a picture of herself on a bike to her son. But as she spoke, she added quietly, “I’m blind, so I’ll need help walking to it.”
The group went silent for a moment — that kind of silence when something beautiful and unexpected happens. I immediately shook my head and said, “You’re not paying a thing.” I offered her my arm, and she gripped it tightly as we walked over to my blue Yamaha. Her touch was light but steady, her face lit up with excitement as if she could already feel the wind she wouldn’t see.
When she ran her hand along the tank, she laughed — a full, contagious laugh that made everyone nearby smile. “So this is what freedom feels like,” she said softly. I helped her onto the seat, and as soon as she settled, her whole body straightened with pride. Someone from our group took her phone and began recording as I climbed on in front of her.
“Ready?” I asked.
She clutched my shoulders and said the words I’ll never forget — “Woohoo! Let’s go, son!”
We circled the lot slowly, the engine rumbling beneath us. She laughed the entire time, the kind of pure, childlike joy that makes you forget the world for a moment. People at the gas station stopped to watch. Some clapped, others took photos, but all of them smiled.
When we came to a stop, she climbed off with help, tears glistening behind her red glasses. “I did it,” she whispered, still smiling. “My son will never believe this.” I told her she didn’t owe me a penny, and she said, “You gave me something money couldn’t buy.”
Before leaving, she asked if she could touch my face, to “see” me one last time. Her hand rested gently on my cheek for a moment, and she said, “You sound young, but you have an old soul. Thank you, dear.”
That moment stayed with me long after the engines started up again. On the open road, the sound of her laughter echoed in my mind — a reminder that joy doesn’t come from sight, but from spirit.
We ride for speed, for freedom, for the road. But that day, I realized sometimes we ride to give someone else a taste of it — even if just for one glorious lap around a parking lot.