The Copper Ridge Café Was A Ghost Of A Place, Its Paint Peeling Like Sun-Scorched Skin. As We Stepped Off Our Bikes, The Roar Of Three Hundred Engines Dying Away Left A Silence So Sudden It Made My Ears Ring. I Was Leaning Against My Harley, Wiping The Desert Grit From My Goggles, When I Felt A Small, Hesitant Tug On The Sleeve Of My Leather Jacket.