Random Kindness on the Street
By Strategic Law Command — the Maverick in Leathers and Law
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Just a Couple of minutes.
The case was over. Nothing flashy—just a Thursday morning felony calendar in Department 63, same old stale air, same old tired bailiff. The judge barely looked up when I entered my appearance, and the DA didn’t even pretend to make eye contact. Routine. Predictable. Done.
Back outside, the sun had crept higher than I expected. Sacramento heat, early and unforgiving, was already turning the asphalt into something you could cook on. My boots clicked across the cracked sidewalk as I made my way to the bike, parked just far enough away to be legal, just close enough that I could still see the courthouse from the mirror.
The Indian sat there gleaming, maroon and cream, waiting like a faithful dog. I pulled out the helmet from the trunk bag, shook it loose. Next came the jacket—black leather, old but broken in like a good saddle. I was halfway through zipping up when I heard a voice.
“I wouldn’t have expected you to be getting on that bike.”
He was tall, maybe 6’2”, dark-skinned with gray peppering his beard. Dressed casual—Levi’s, black T-shirt, and clean sneakers that had seen some pavement. His tone wasn’t mocking. More like curious admiration. Or surprise.
I smiled. “Yeah, I get that a lot. What gave me away—the suit or the age?”
He laughed, deep and genuine. “Hell, both.”
That broke the ice. He told me he was 65, retired from driving buses for the city. Said he used to ride, back in the day—had a ’86 Goldwing until his knees gave out. I told him I was a few years older than him, lawyer for three decades, and probably too stubborn to quit riding until my body made the decision for me.
We talked of what we had in common. Bikes. Time in the military. And a belief that maybe we all had something we could share.
We stood there for a while, two old guys leaning into the shade of a skinny sidewalk tree, laughing about busted backs, lost bikes, and what the world used to feel like when we were young enough to think we’d live forever.
Then she came by—a heavy-set Black woman with a smile that could part clouds. She clapped her hands and said, “Well look at this—two handsome old fools standing around like they run the city.”
“Damn right we do,” he said, and the three of us laughed. Another man, maybe late fifties, joined in with a knowing nod. Just a street corner gathering of weathered souls, none of it planned.
No one talked about politics. No one preached. No one pulled out a phone. For a couple of minutes, it was just human beings, unfiltered. A lawyer in a leather jacket. A retired bus driver. A woman with joy in her voice. A man with wisdom in his eyes. The heat didn’t seem so hot anymore.
Eventually, they moved on. So did I. I slipped on the helmet, kicked the stand, and fired the engine to life. As I rolled off the curb, I glanced in the side mirror.
He was still there, waving once. Not a big wave. Just enough.
Was it the motorcycle? Maybe. Bikes are strange magnets—people don’t always know what to say, but they know they want to say something. Maybe it was the jacket. Maybe it was two guys just glad to still be on this side of the dirt.
But more than that, it was just a little moment of grace. A reminder that sometimes, what saves us isn’t grand or planned. Sometimes, it’s just a couple of minutes on the side of the road. And sometimes, that’s enough.