The shop owner, an old man with a grey beard reaching his chest, stepped outside.
"I think I was just born to be wild," he said. "It just took me sixty-five years to realize it."
He walked past his usual bus stop. He kept walking until he found himself standing in front of a weathered, neon-lit storefront on the edge of town. Behind the glass sat a 1970s vintage motorcycle. It had a chipped black paint job, exposed chrome pipes, and a leather seat that looked like it had seen a thousand rainstorms.
He gripped the handlebars, twisted the throttle, and kicked the bike into gear.