Even then, it was considered intrepid, with its innards just hanging loose. This bike had seen many an adventurous day. Ridden across the country, meeting all sorts of bikers and the pubs they frequented. It had known many cities and the winding roads that lay within them. It had sworn to travel many more. It was born to be on the road – its true home.
Now it stood on the porch of a travel lodge, unable to move an inch. Travellers from far and near, come to see it in all its rustic beauty.
The local kids called it “Iron-y”.
This is my 100-word entry for this week’s Friday Fictioneers.
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I await your thoughts and comments. 🙂