Streetbike buzzed around the curve, taking the turn wide as it shot through the red light and into the parking lot of Sylvia’s Bar and Grill. Gravel sprayed up from the bike’s wheels in a flourish. From where he leaned against his black Harley-Davidson Electra Glide, Mack Thomas shook his head in disgust. Over the engine’s drone, he hollered, “Get a real bike!”
Softail Deuce, Stan Freeman laughed. Mack crossed his thick arms in front of his broad chest and nodded at the newcomer. To no one in particular, he muttered, “Nice moped.” Stan laughed again.
“Yeah ,” the rider said, cutting off his engine. He shook a mess of blonde hair free from his helmet. “Laugh it up, Pops. I can outride you with my eyes closed.” Barely in his twenties, Brad Anderson had a wide grin, bright eyes, and tousled
