To me, he was the Lone Biker.
Every year, same day, same time, he turns up. Rain, hail or
shine, there’s the sound of one of those giant motorcycles tearing down the
road just outside my farm. I tend to go out and watch now, as this big, burly
guy parks his motorcycle, takes off his helmet, and pauses for a moment,
staring at the ground underneath a tree by the side of the road.
There’s never been an accident or anything there, so one
year I waited for him, to ask what he was doing.
He never turned up.
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