The Harley was midnight polished chrome, three years of saving — a gift to myself in the spring of seventeen. I donned leathers as my birthday broke, left the house that was not home and rode out into morning. Rode until I landed, beneath the steely gaze of a drill sergeant who forged men from boys of seventeen. He shaved away my dreadlocks, found a fractured soul beneath, broke it down then built it up, stronger, more complete.