Miles
I had one of the prospects drop me off at the edge of the gravel driveway, not wanting the heavy rumble of a full pack disturbing the peace. Walking up to Sam’s Moto Repair, the first thing that hit me wasn't the smell of gasoline or hot pavement—it was the sound.
My Harley was idling in the center bay.
It wasn't just running; it was breathing. The ragged, choked-up stutter in the custom intake was completely gone, replaced by a deep, terrifyingly clean thunder that echoed off the cinderblock walls. I had taken that machine to three different high-end custom shops in the city, and not one of them had managed to balance the aftermarket integration without ruining the idle.
And yet, standing right beside the front wheel, holding a grease rag, was a five-foot-five girl in oil-staine
