King of the Road

The sun was just beginning to rise over the long stretch of Highway 61, casting golden light across the asphalt and dusting the tops of the tall pines that lined the road. A faint rumble echoed in the distance—low, steady, growing louder. Anyone who traveled this road knew that sound. It was the unmistakable growl of a custom V-twin engine, and it meant only one thing.

Frank “Diesel” Donovan was coming.

They called him the King of the Road, not because he was the fastest or the most violent rider, but because he had earned a reputation as a legend. Every trucker, biker, and roadside diner waitress between Nashville and New Orleans knew his name. He rode a massive, black chopper named Eleanor, with chrome so polished you could see your reflection in it, and handlebars so high they nearly kissed the sky.

Diesel had been on the road for two decades, ever since he left home at nineteen with nothing but a leather jacket, a broken heart, and a dream of freedom. Over the years, he’d built a code to live by—no lies, no cheats, no fear. He helped those in trouble, never backed down from a challenge, and always rode alone.

That morning, Diesel was heading south toward a small town called Ashwood, known for its annual “Iron Run,” a motorcycle rally that gathered the boldest riders from across the states. This year, however, the rally had a darker tone. Word on the road was that a new gang had rolled into town—the Reapers. They were young, ruthless, and eager to claim the Iron Run as their own. They had no respect for the old ways. No code. No honor.

Diesel didn’t come to make trouble. But he also didn’t tolerate bullies.

He pulled into the Ashwood truck stop just past noon. The air smelled like gasoline, coffee, and fried chicken. As he stepped off Eleanor, heads turned. A group of Reapers lounging by their bikes, all slick leather and chrome attitude, watched him with narrowed eyes. One of them, a wiry kid with a scar above his eyebrow, flicked a cigarette to the ground.

“Hey, old man,” he called out. “You lost?”

Diesel looked at him slowly, his blue eyes cold and unreadable. He said nothing. Just walked past the gang, boots thudding against the pavement, and entered the diner.

Inside, the regulars whispered. Word had spread already—the King of the Road was here.

An hour later, Diesel was sipping black coffee when the Reaper with the scar strutted in. He made a show of cracking his knuckles and grinning like a wolf.

“You’re Diesel, huh?” he said. “Heard about you. Thought you’d be... taller.”

Diesel looked up calmly. “Thought you’d be quieter.”

The diner went still.

Scar laughed, but it was forced. “We’re taking the Iron Run. You got a problem with that?”

Diesel stood, towering over him now. “You don’t take the road. You earn it.”

Scar sneered. “Then let's ride. Sundown. One-on-one.”

The challenge was made. There was no backing out now.

As the sun dipped behind the hills, two engines roared to life. The whole town lined the old highway, watching the two riders face off. The rules were simple: ride the winding ten-mile stretch up Devil’s Ridge and back. First one to return wins.

The flag dropped.

They tore off down the road, tires screaming, engines howling. Scar was fast, reckless, leaning into every turn with dangerous abandon. But Diesel rode like the wind knew him—smooth, steady, powerful. He didn’t try to beat Scar in speed. He beat him in control.

At the turnaround point, Scar skidded wide, nearly losing control. Diesel passed him with a nod and thundered down the hill. By the time he reached the finish line, the crowd erupted. The Reapers hung their heads.

Scar never spoke to Diesel again. The gang left town that night.

The next morning, Diesel was gone too. Just a black streak down the highway and a legend left behind.

He wasn’t there for the glory. He was there for the road.

Because the road wasn’t just asphalt and paint—it was a way of life.

And he was its king.