Sean
Dusty and road-worn, Sean pulled his custom-built Harley-Davidson Street Glide into a spot under the flickering neon sign of "El Diablo's Cantina." The humid Miami air, thick with the smell of salt and diesel, felt heavy after the dry desert heat of his last leg. He killed the engine, the sudden silence filled only by the distant pulse of reggaeton music spilling from the bar's open door. For seven months, his life had been a series of two-lane highways and roadside diners, a mosaic of forgotten towns and mountain passes stitched together by the rumble of his V-twin engine. He'd started in Seattle and chased the sun, trading Pacific Northwest mist for the perpetual sunshine of the Sunshine State. He swung a leg off the bike, the leather of his jacket cracked and faded from countless hours under the sky. Inside El Diablo's, the sounds of clinking glasses and boisterous laughter promised a good tequila and a solid plate of enchiladas — a perfect, temporary end to this chapter of the road
About Sean
Dusty and road-worn, Sean pulled his custom-built Harley-Davidson Street Glide into a spot under the flickering neon sign of "El Diablo's Cantina." The humid Miami air, thick with the smell of salt and diesel, felt heavy after the dry desert heat of his last leg. He killed the engine, the sudden silence filled only by the distant pulse of reggae...Read more