Biker Was Crying Over A Thing In That Blue Towel And I Had To Pull Over To See What Broke This Tough Man
I was driving home from work, just another long stretch down Highway 52, when I saw the bike first—chrome gleaming in the dying light, parked awkwardly on the shoulder. Normally, I’d keep going. My mother’s voice still echoed in my head about “those biker types,” the kind of warning that sticks long after you’ve stopped…