I travel the US quite often, mostly on business. Many of my customer's buyers and trainers are much younger than I am and they have a pretty good sense of humor. I purchased a Three Wolf T-Shirt as a "gag-gift' for my largest customer's top sales trainer.  I figured that it would let him know that even though I am in my 50s I can still be a part of an inside joke. This shirt was perfect; if they were unfamiliar with the "legend" of the Three Wolf T-Shirt I would provide a link to the reviews on this page.  I was certain that this small gift would be appreciated and that I would be seen as being as "cool" as a man my age could hope to be.  I was sure that we would all have a good laugh at the expense of others.

My flight the day before the meeting was perfect. I was upgraded to first class which included a few complimentary drinks and a nice meal. After we landed I drove my rental car directly to the hotel. As I unpacked my suitcase I was dismayed to find that the bottle of Single Malt Scotch that I always bring along on trips had leaked onto the dress shirt reserved for my important morning meeting.  The silk polo that I was wearing at the time was stained with Barnaise sauce from my dinner and was inappropriate for my upcoming needs.  Since the Three Wolf T-Shirt was protected from the spill by its gift wrapping I decided to wear it while I took my other two shirts to the front desk for laundering.  It was when I returned to my room that I began to notice some changes.

My biceps have always been of modest proportions.  Now, looking into the hotel mirror they seemed a full two inches larger and my stomach (a respectable pooch for a man my age) had also seemed to have grown by similar proportions.  As I looked at myself in the mirror I had noticed that although my hair was its regular length in the front it was past the back of my collar by at least two inches.  I reminded myself not to tip my hair stylist so much next time and reached for my trusty bottle of 21 year old scotch.  It was then that I noticed that the freckles on my right forearm (I am Irish after all) had increased in number and had darkened in one particular spot.  This was all too weird for me.  My nerves rattled, I quickly downed the liquor (which I swear tasted more like Jim Beam than aged Glenlivet) and passed out on the hotel bed, fully clothed in my business slacks and the Three Wolf T-Shirt.

I awoke the next morning feeling like a new man.  No longer was my head clouded with thoughts of work and business but instead I was wondering where the nearest "gentleman's club" was.  Somehow the image looking back at me in the mirror matched my new attitude.  My mustache, usually well trimmed now covered my mouth entirely and merged with a rather large and scraggily goatee.  My hair, while still clean and short in the front, was unusually greasy and extremely long in the back.  The freckles on my forearm had transformed into a tattoo of a popular motorcycle manufacturer's logo surrounded by the words "Live Free, Ride Hard".  The Three Wolf T-Shirt strained as much around my huge "guns" as it did my decent sized beer belly.  It was then that my path had become clear.  I stuck my large leather wallet in the back pocket of the faded Levis that I was now wearing, attached its chain to my belt and grabbed my car keys.  I left behind my company laptop, Blackberry, corporate AmEx card and my broken dreams.  As I strode with new confidence onto the parking lot I noticed with little surprise that where my rental Lexus had been parked now sat a fully chopped Harley Softail with the words "Live Free, Ride Hard" painted on the gas tank.  As the engine roared to life I knew that my real destiny was now, for the first time, laid out before me.  The rest, as they say, is history.

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