On a warm summer evening, my daughter and I were on the patio of a favorite restaurant, waiting to be seated. A low rumbling noise announced the arrival of a group of motorcyclists. About a dozen of them, men and women, dressed in leather jackets and red bandanas.
Sara and I exchanged a look. We knew about motorcycle gangs, knew they were rough and rowdy. Of course, I’d only ridden on a motor cycle once years ago, with Uncle Ron, the rebel in the family. It was thrilling but not something I ever did again.
Now Sara and I tried not to stare at the motorcyclists, at their badges and emblems and enormous shiny machines. Who were these bold people and where were they going? They seemed to be having a great time
When a server came to take Sara and me to a table, we found ourselves seated near the cyclists. We exchanged another look. Then we noticed that the riders all ordered ice tea while we ordered beer — and we had to laugh. Well, you never know.
Thank goodness you never know.
