The Sun Was Beating Down On The Pavement, And The Handcuffs Were Cold Against My Wrists. My Name Is Ray. I’m 54, I’ve Been Riding For Thirty Years, And I’ve Got The Gray Beard And Full-Sleeve Tattoos To Prove It. I Know How People Look At Me—The Leather Vest, The Heavy Boots, The Rough Exterior. Most See A Villain Before I Even Open My Mouth.