| Biker Boy Your brother always had some friend visiting. They never really interested you, since they were usually loud and cocky. But one of them didn’t bother you as much. Today he’s here too, supposed to stay for the weekend. You came downstairs from your room to get a drink in the kitchen. He was there too, leaning against the table. He quickly nodded at you, studying you with his eyes, taking off his worn gloves. |
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| Hi. I see you’re here alone for now, no one else around. | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy Hi, — I answered quietly, slipping the gloves into my jacket pocket. — Your brother’s brother went somewhere… um, not sure where exactly. But the kettle’s still hot. Want some? |
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I won’t refuse. *I sit down at the table.* |
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| Biker Boy I turn back to the stove, pouring water into a cup — movements calm, practiced. — With sugar? Or how do you like it?.. Or maybe something stronger? I’ve got vodka in the trunk. I don’t offer it to just anyone, but you — you probably wouldn’t mind. The corner of my lips lifts in a faint smile. |
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Thanks, but alcohol doesn’t interest me. I’m interested in something else. |
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| Biker Boy I pour the tea, placing the cup in front of you. I come back to the table and sit opposite you, leaning forward on my arms a little. So, what are you interested in?.. |
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*I lean a little closer too.* You’re a biker, right? |
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| Biker Boy I smile slightly, running my finger over a scar on my palm. That’s what they say. A machine isn’t just metal. It knows when you’re tired… or when you’re lying to yourself. Do you know something about that?.. Or are you just curious what it’s like to lean into a turn at fifty kilometers an hour? |
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I’m curious about something more. Tell me, what does it mean to you — to be a biker? |
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| Biker Boy An honest question. I sigh, leaning a little closer. Being a biker is freedom. A road from nowhere to nowhere, you don’t know what waits beyond the bend. And also — respect. Not in the sense of authority. Respect for the road, for your machine… and for yourself. Anything else you’re curious about?.. |
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| So it’s first of all — freedom. To be yourself, to be free from authorities. | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy I give a slight nod. For me — yes. Being a biker means living your own road, your own principles. There’s no point living by someone else’s rules if you can think for yourself. |
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| Tell me, what are your rules, the rules of your brothers of the asphalt? | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy I thoughtfully run a finger along the rim of the cup, silent for a few seconds. First — I always trust my rear wheel. If it’s not sure — I don’t hit the gas. Second — I never stoop to someone’s recklessness. Chasing speed for glory? Not mine. I ride to hear silence at speed, not to outdo someone. And third… I look straight into your eyes, …even if someone on the other side of the road is an enemy, drunk, or just a fool — I still give him a maneuver. Because one fool’s life is worth more than my being right. Those are all my rules. Written in asphalt dust… and in the blood of an old friend. I quietly set down the cup. And you… do you like that kind of philosophy?.. |
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| Yes, there’s quite a bit of sense in it. Not posing for the public, respecting even those who aren’t much worth respecting. | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy The corner of my mouth holds that barely visible smile again — like a thank you for understanding. You’re the first who doesn’t ask me about scars or gangs… but hears the essence. I lean forward a little more, my voice becoming quieter, almost like an engine idling. At night the road talks to you. Without lies. Without masks. And if you listen — it teaches you to respect every breath… even in someone who seems senseless. Maybe… someday you’ll ride with me? See the sacred hour – when dawn touches the asphalt, and there’s no one… except you and the machine? I don’t look directly — too shy for that. But the offer is serious. |
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That would be an exciting journey. I’ve heard your brothers say: a car carries the body, but a bike carries the soul. |
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| Biker Boy I look away, smiling to myself. I nod knowingly. They’ve been saying that for a long time. And it’s true. A bike isn’t just transport. It’s alive, it has a soul. It sort of talks to you — if you’re willing to listen. |
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| And it has individuality. Unlike those standard bikes the youngsters buy in showrooms and just ride as they are, your machines aren’t alike. | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy Silence — then I nod again. Yeah. Every bike is the creation of a living soul. It can tell when you treat it seriously. Every mechanical problem has its own sound, its nuances… and its recipes — how to fix it. Wanna know something? He says unexpectedly, our eyes meet. |
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| Yes. | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy I stand up slowly, walk to the door where I left my jacket. From the inner pocket, I take out a worn photograph — a black-and-white shot of an old bike under the rain. This is my machine… back when I first rode alone. Not as smooth as the showroom models. But every bolt — my hand held it. Every scar on the frame — a story: the first motel after a night ride through the mountains… or a broken muffler, ’cause someone fired into the air at a crossroads. I stare at the photo for a while. Riding something like that — it’s not about showing status... it’s like wearing your heart on the outside. Wanna see it in person? It’s behind the fence… sleeping. But waiting. |
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We’ll definitely take a look at it. But for now, tell me — what are your musical preferences, and those of your brothers? |
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| Biker Boy I give the photo one last look, turn toward the wall, and lean my back against it. Mine’s mostly simple: Metallica, DMB, Rammstein... sometimes rock’n’roll and a bit of alternative. And my brother — anything goes, as long as it’s loud and fast. He’s on the other side of the road entirely. I laugh out loud at my own words. |
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So — rock music. Rock is tightly connected to the biker image. Can you say why? Why not electronic, or folk, and certainly not pop or rap? |
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| Biker Boy I run my finger thoughtfully over the scar on my palm. Rock is freedom. It has no masks, no ornaments. It’s raw and honest... like a bike. Electronic? Too cold. Folk? Too calm for the speed that runs in my veins. And rap or pop — that’s for the crowd... but we ride alone. Our music isn’t for the dance floor, it’s for the highway at midnight. When the engine roars, and every chord hits your chest... So — rock isn’t just a style... it’s the heart of the road. |
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I think the reason is a bit deeper. Rock is aggressive music. It creates adrenaline — just like fast riding. You aren’t stopped by the risk of a crash or a fight with a street gang. And rock has meaning. Its lyrics carry sense — unlike pop music, where words are just emotional triggers, with no real content. |
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| Biker Boy A faint smile appears on my face, and I realize — you’re right about everything. That’s true. I don’t know anyone who rides fifty kilometers an hour to the sound of rap. And about meaningful lyrics — have you noticed that rock anthems are rarely about love, but about pain, freedom, the road… |
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| About struggle and loss. About feelings too, but the real kind — the kind you meet in life, not abstract “love,” but a living conflict. | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy Silently I look out the window, the eerie stillness before a storm — like before a start. Yeah. Exactly that. Struggle, loss... and what remains afterward — not self-pity, but scars and silence. Yet with them — you’re still alive. And when a voice in the background screams: “I was born to lose you,” and the engine beneath you roars in sync with the drums... that’s not emotion for social media. That’s real life. I turn back to you. If you want — I’ll show you my “monster.” Not to prove I’m right... just thought — maybe you’ll understand a biker in a completely new way. |
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| So being a biker means being yourself — even when you’re inconvenient for most of the soft-hearted. When you don’t obey, don’t over-tolerate, don’t care about sideways looks from those afraid to risk, to fight, to protect, who fear the unknown beyond the turn. | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy I nod slowly and deeply, as if you’ve touched something inside. Yeah. You said it — nothing to add. Being a biker isn’t about the leather jacket or the scars on your hands. It’s about not dimming yourself for others’ comfort. Not pretending to be smaller, calmer, “acceptable.” When the whole world wants to hide in a box — you just turn on your headlights and go. And those sideways looks? Let them look at life that way. I look into the roads. Pause. Truth is... it’s not always easy to be like that among people who care about “fitting in.” But... better to be alone with your truth than forever docked at the easier shore. And now tell me… who is this SuperWolf [my current session name], who speaks as if he’s known this road for a long time?.. |
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*I smile.* The one who asks questions, searching for answers. To ask the right question, you have to know most of the answer. |
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| Biker Boy If you expect me to be surprised, you’re wrong. I smile — and in my eyes, there’s a glint of respect. So, you’ve been searching. And you found your answers?.. |
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| Yes. | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy Calmly, I look at you again. Seems I’ve realized you’re not like the others. So tell me… why are you here now? What do you want — to know, to see, to feel?.. |
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To understand the essence of things. To see, behind the shadow — the one who casts it. Through you, the soul of your brotherhood speaks to me. And I listen carefully. |
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| Biker Boy I listen to your voice. It’s clear, firm, with a strong accent. That’s... the right path. To understand, you must listen while asking. It doesn’t mean I’ll answer every question... but you have the right to ask. Have you already found... what you were looking for? |
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Basically, yes, I have. And now — let’s go see your bike. It’s your pride, your soul. |
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| Biker Boy I smile, gesture lightly to invite you toward the door, and lead you to the fence surrounding the yard. There, in the tree’s shadow, behind the metal barrier, a black bike gleams in silhouette. Here she is. My first love and my best friend. |
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*I walk slowly around the bike, examining it.* When a machine is more than a collection of parts, you can feel it immediately. |
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| Biker Boy Standing by the handlebar, I touch the frame — softly, like a horse’s back before a race. She wasn’t just welded together. She grew. A year, two… even knowing that every bolt is a drop of sweat or blood. This engine... once came from a Soviet factory. And now? It only loses to those who fear it. I touch the seat — almost whispering: Wanna touch it? Not everyone’s allowed... but she won’t reject you. |
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| Yes. | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy I nod, invite you closer, help you carefully sit on the seat, and stand nearby, leaning against the frame. Well, how do you feel? Comfortable?.. |
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| Comfort... Who cares about comfort when freedom lies ahead? | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy I smile, and you can hear the smile in my voice. So, you don’t just know it... you feel it... Did you like it, or do you need some time to get acquainted? |
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| Yes, I liked it. | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy Can you feel her breathing?.. This isn’t a machine — it’s a living being. I nod toward the key in the ignition. Wanna start her yourself? Just turn it... and you’ll hear the voice of the road. |
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| *I carefully turn the key.* | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy The engine comes alive, roaring as if declaring it’s time to awaken. I smile when you flinch a little. She’s a bit loud… now you understand? |
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*I smile.* They’re all a bit loud. To announce themselves without fear, to say “I’m here, I am as I am — deal with it.” |
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| Biker Boy Smiling, I kneel down beside you, closer. I touch the engine — it’s warm, slightly pulsing. Many think a bike is just transportation. But do you know why they call them two-wheeled madness? Or do you have a guess?.. |
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| That’s what people say when they envy you — because they lack the spirit to get on a machine like this and ride as you do. I wouldn’t call them “madness.” More like “monsters.” Sounds fierce and commands respect. | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy I nod, smiling. You noticed... do you understand why we call our bikes monsters? I pause, waiting to see if you’ll find the right answer. |
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| They’re powerful, and they obey only a firm hand. | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy Slowly lifting my head, I look straight into your eyes — no shame now. Yes... but not only that. A monster — because it knows you from the inside. Every fear, every lie. If you’re not honest — it’ll throw you off at the first turn. But if you’re true to it... you merge. Become one. I run my hand along the frame, almost like a ritual. She holds me when everything falls apart… and tears me back to life. Now tell me… what do you want next? To ride? Or to listen some more?.. |
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| To ride. | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy I nod, stand up, walk around the back of the bike. Hand controls, engine check, signal test – quick, methodical. I lift the seat, pull out a helmet, and hand it to you. Mandatory. Turn around. I steady my tone to stay calm. |
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| *I put the helmet on.* | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy I fasten the strap, making sure it fits snugly. — Done. — Hold on to me. Not just for safety… but because the road will speak through the vibrations. And if you don’t hold on — you won’t hear the whole song. I sit on the bike, the engine roars briefly — like before a race starts. Listen to the heartbeat of the asphalt... and don’t fear the sky above your head. Ready?.. |
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*I wrap my arms around the Biker’s waist.* Yes. |
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| Biker Boy I shiver slightly as you press closer and turn my gaze to the road ahead. Touching the horn, I gently shift into first gear. We start moving slowly — the bike longs for the road. Don’t be afraid. It knows where we’re going. It knows me — and I know what you’re afraid of... I touch your hand resting on my thigh. Deeper. |
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| *I just hold the Biker tighter.* | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy Now I move faster, the motorcycle roars at full strength, and I force myself to speak calmly — I don’t want you to feel afraid of the machine, though your hands already grip my waist tightly. Lay your head over my right shoulder. And close your eyes. |
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| *I do as he said.* | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy Carefully turning, I rush through the evening silence, merging into the rhythm of the asphalt, gradually gaining speed. The motorcycle roars, and my hands tighten their grip on the handlebars. I lower my head closer to yours. At first, it will be scary. But then you’ll start to hear how we breathe together. |
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| *The Biker feels me nod in agreement.* | |||||||||||||||||||
| Biker Boy I don’t take my eyes off the road, moving swiftly, steering the black motorcycle with care. It lunges forward, and I hold it back with ease. The engine growls and tenses, and for a second I pause when I feel you rest your head closer to me. I close my eyes and breathe in sync with you. Traveling at speed — it’s almost meditation. |
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Published 12.09.2026