At a busy intersection, an all-black Harley churns a breeze beside me. The helmet shield hides the driver’s face, but well-worn Doc Martins and wiry legs suggest he could circle the walls of Thunderdome.
He revs the engine before blasting off in a cloud of rpm’s. My SUV gasps at forty-five mph.
I decide Harleyman’s headed hell-bent and reckless to a roadhouse as my son tickles his brother. A saccharine song blasts from the car’s speakers.
I try to tally my years impassively, like botanists counting tree rings. Age brings nothing but love to recommend it. Luckily, that’s enough.