Are you more of a night or morning person?
I swing my leg over my Harley, the engine coughing like a bluesman clearing his throat. A couple of tourists stare, phones half-raised. What are they even watching?
I thumb the starter and my 2025 Heritage thumbs alive—a deep, low sound of freedom. Ride to live.
That’s when a Rod Piazza riff hits me—not the notes, but the spaces between them.
Past El Cortez, past the old motels where the signs are sun-faded ghosts by day but glow like saints after midnight. The kind of places where a thousand bad decisions were made.
I keep rolling until the music is in my soul and the Vegas neon is just light turning night into day.
I roll on the throttle, northbound on the Boulevard. The lights of the valley feel like home. Past Cashman Field, south on Maryland. The city becomes a track built for a motorcycle, and I’m just riding it.
The night doesn’t end at the city limits. It opens up.
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