Seven Bikers Surrounded My Father at a Red Light. Then One of Them Asked Him to Remember a Girl Named Debbie.
The first thing I noticed was that the biker wasn’t looking at my father. He was looking at me. He stood beside our pickup truck at a red light on Route 40, his gray beard moving in the wind, one gloved hand resting on the open driver’s door. Behind him, six other bikers had stopped … Read more