"Every day after school, the boys would race down to Bill's Motorcycle Repair Shop. If you were seven years old, the shop was magical. It was better than an amusement park, a zoo and a movie house all put together. The boys would follow Bill around and ask him a million questions, "What does this do Bill, where does this go, how much would this part cost?" Their one collective dream was to own their own motorcycle someday.
One afternoon in late September their dream come true. The old Indian bike had sat around the garage for years; Bill had even forgotten where he had picked it up. For Bill, it was fall housecleaning; for the boys, it was 'the gift.'"