His name was Marco. Once a truck driver, until illness and debt swallowed everything. He told me that a group of motorcyclists had taken him in. They called themselves The Sentinels. I thought it was a cruel joke. But it wasn’t.
The riders
That brings us back to the sidewalk and the man kneeling at my feet. When he finished tying my laces, he asked if I wanted a ride. My instinct was to refuse, but he laughed gently. “Don’t worry. We’ve got a sidecar.”
So I climbed in, clutching the rim as the wind rushed across my face. My laughter startled me; it had been locked away for years.
We stopped in front of a bistro where a dozen more riders waited, their jackets marked with the same emblem. They ushered me inside as though I were royalty, pulling out a chair, placing a menu before me.
I ordered roasted chicken and a glass of red wine. Warm food, warm company. For the first time in ages, I tasted life again.
Why they ride
Over the meal, their leader introduced himself as Henrik. His shoulders were massive, his voice gravelly, but his eyes softened when he spoke.