That's the thing about a free project. It's not about the thing you're building.

The concrete floor of the garage was cold through the knees of my jeans. Dust motes danced in the single beam of light cutting through the darkness. In front of me, under a stained canvas tarp, was .

My boss thinks I'm building a bike to sell. My girlfriend thinks it's a midlife crisis. My neighbor thinks it's an eyesore.

But tonight, I have a garage, a half-tank of stale gas, and an open road.

I wasn't restoring a motorcycle. I was restoring a part of myself that got buried under performance reviews and mortgage applications.