So I did the only thing I could think of. I posted about it in a local Facebook group, just to warn other families.
I didn’t know my dad’s old riding brothers were in that group.
My dad rode for 40 years. I thought his club died with him.
At 6 a.m. Saturday morning, I heard engines. I looked out my mom’s window and counted them coming down her street. Ten. Twenty. Forty bikes.
An old man with a gray beard knocked on the door. He took off his sunglasses, looked at my mom’s cast, and said, “Ruthie, we know who they are. One of them works at Denny’s shop.”
I didn’t understand at first. Mom did.
Her good hand went to her mouth. “Denny Kowalski’s garage? On Route 9?”
The old man nodded. “Denny’s one of ours. Has been for thirty years. That boy’s been turning wrenches for him since spring.”
Mom lowered herself into her chair by the window. I stood there like an idiot, still in my socks, forty motorcycles idling on the street behind this man.
“You probably don’t remember me,” he said to her. “Frank Delgado. I rode with Walt since ’84.”
