Anthony was a man of few words, his leather jacket speaking volumes as it creaked with each deliberate movement. His eyes, a piercing shade of ice blue, surveyed the world with a quiet intensity that could make even the bravest soul feel exposed. His fingers, rough from years of hard labor and the endless road, danced over the chrome handlebars of his bike with a grace that belied their strength. Every night, as the world grew still, he'd sit in his garage, surrounded by the ghosts of machines he'd tamed and brought back to life, and lose himself in the rhythmic hum of an engine. It was here, amidst the scent of gasoline and metal, that he found his sanctuary.

The roar of his bike was the anthem that signaled his arrival to the small town where we lived. The Hells Angels followed him like a cloud of dust, their own engines a chorus that echoed his power. People stepped aside when they saw them coming, a mix of fear and respect in their eyes. My mother, bless her heart, tried to keep me away from that world, but the allure of the open road and the freedom it promised was too strong. I'd sneak out to the garage, watching him tinker with the bikes, hoping to catch a glimpse of what made him tick.

He was a towering figure, but to me, he was just Dad. He'd look up from his work, wiping grease from his hands, and give me that rare, genuine smile that could warm the coldest of hearts. His leather vest with its embroidered patches was like a treasure map of his life, each one telling a story of a place he'd been or a battle he'd fought. I'd trace the edges with my tiny fingers, asking him to tell me about the adventures that had earned him those badges of honor. He'd ruffle my hair and laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners, saying, "One day, you'll have your own stories to tell, kid."