I’ve Lived Long Enough To Know What Happens When Two Hundred Motorcycles Flood The Parking Lot Of A Small-Town Diner. It Stops Being A Meal And Becomes A Spectacle—Chrome Glinting Under The Sun, Engines Roaring Like A Storm, Boots Hitting Pavement Like A Marching Line. People Who Claim They Don’t Stare Always End Up Staring Anyway, Eyes Flicking Over Patches And Ink As If They’re Reading Warnings Off Our Skin.