I was terrified. Eighty-three years old, driving alone, and a huge biker had been tailing me for nearly fifty miles. I’ve driven since 1958, and never have I felt such panic.
He stayed two car lengths behind, mirroring every move. Changed lanes? He changed lanes. Sped up? He sped up. Slowed down? Same. My hands shook so badly I could barely grip the wheel.
I’d heard the stories—bikers targeting elderly drivers—but I never imagined I’d be in this position. My daughter had warned me about making the three-hour drive to visit my sister, but I’d done it countless times before.
When I pulled into a rest stop, praying he’d leave, he parked right next to me. I locked the doors, hands trembling, phone in hand, ready to call 911.
He took off his helmet, revealing a long gray beard, tattoos covering his arms, and a leather vest with patches I couldn’t read. I pressed myself into the seat, trying to shrink. My finger hovered over the call button as he stepped closer.
“Ma’am, please,” he called through the glass. “I’m not here to hurt you. Your rear tire is about to blow.”
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