years old. Six foot two. Hands that had wrenched on Panheads since before I was born. He got down on his knees and put his hands on my knees and looked up at me.
“I am not losing you the way my father lost me,” he said. “Do you hear me? I would sell every bike I have ever owned. I would sell this house. I would sell the clothes off my back. I am begging continue reading …
