Out of town a-ways, down the old trail by the woods, there lives a man with no name. He's been there for years, in a small cabin, sheltered from sight by the trees. Some folks say that when he first settled there another man was with him, but if there was there hasn't been for years. He lives all alone now.

Sometimes he comes into town, riding on a motorbike, kitted out in a worn leather jacket and old style helmet, a bag slung over his shoulders. He's old, they're not sure how old, but old enough, but he rides the bike like a pro. He's crippled too, a cane clipped to the side of the bike. It seems like he's in pain, when he gets off the bike he rests against the bike for a moment, taking one foot off the ground. But he won't let anyone help, and he always gets where he's going.

He goes around the town, picking up bits and pieces, never saying much. Sometimes he talks to himself, and at those times his face comes alive, blue eyes smiling, hands gesturing and then the years seem to drop off him. Some of the children laugh at him, but he doesn't seem to notice, and if he did it seems like he wouldn't care. He lives deep in his own world, the rest of them might not even exist.

Once he's done his shopping he'll go to the bar and order a couple of drinks, no more than that, he always stops at two. There's an old piano in the bar and he'll take the drinks over to it, one is always left untouched on top of the piano, the other he sips from slowly as he plays.

The old guy can play the piano like a master. Whenever he's in town word gets around and folk come into town just to listen. He props his helmet up by the stool and by the end of the night it's always full with tips. Maybe it's his sole source of income, no-one knows.

He never talks to anyone but if they call out requests sometimes he'll play them. The bar becomes lively with singing and dancing, good times chasing away whatever ails people. Once he's finished playing the barkeep places a hot meal in front of him, as thanks. He always looks surprised but he'll eat it all, leaving only a small pile of fries to one side of the plate. Then he's gone again, back to his cabin in the woods.

Then one day he hasn't been to town for a long time and the sheriff decides to go and check on him. The cabin door falls open to his touch and there he is, lying on the bed, not breathing, a smile on his face. On the table by the bed there's an old faded photo in a frame, two bearded men, dressed to ride, their eyes locked on each other.

There are two leather jackets hanging from hooks on the wall, side by side, one old and worn, the other nearly store fresh. Two helmets on the dresser, and out the back there are two bikes standing together, one unridden for many years.

Down by the side of the cabin, near the treeline, there's a well tended grave, a handful of pebbles scattered over its length.

They bury him there, next to his friend, and say goodbye to the man with no name.