Every night, after the world demanded its pound of flesh—emails, bills, small talk, compromises—I pulled off the tarp. The smell of old grease and oxidized aluminum filled my lungs like pure oxygen. This was the only place where no one had a spreadsheet, an opinion, or a deadline.

I wasn't restoring a motorcycle. I was restoring a part of myself that got buried under performance reviews and mortgage applications.

To the world, it was a 1978 Honda CB750. A rusted, seized, forgotten piece of scrap metal my neighbor had paid me fifty dollars to haul away. To my boss, it was a waste of time I could be spending on overtime. To my girlfriend, it was the reason we hadn't been on a date in six weeks.

Last night, it was done. Not perfect—never perfect. The tank had a dent I decided to keep. The left turn signal blinked a little faster than the right. But the engine idled with a low, irregular heartbeat that was entirely its own.

The concrete floor of the garage was cold through the knees of my jeans. Dust motes danced in the single beam of light cutting through the darkness. In front of me, under a stained canvas tarp, was .

But tonight, I have a garage, a half-tank of stale gas, and an open road.