In the early hours of a quiet spring morning, precisely at seven o’clock, the street outside our small suburban home seemed almost suspended in stillness. The faint scent of damp earth, mingled with the sweet aroma of blooming cherry blossoms, lingered in the cool air. Then, like a ripple disturbing a still pond, a deep, resonant rumble echoed from the distance. Forty-seven motorcycles appeared, a chrome-clad, leather‑armed convoy rolling down our narrow lane with the… CONTINUE READING…
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