I was idling at a stoplight on Shea Boulevard, maybe five cars back in line, windows down, enjoying an unseasonably cool morning. That’s when the deafening thrum of a Harley chopper whipping between stopped cars scared the heck out of me.
I’m guessing you know who was driving, or at least the stereotype: Levis and clunky boots, mirrored shades, beard like a “Duck Dynasty” extra. Probably your average commercial Realtor by weekday, but a part-time weekend badass.
When my heart rate backed down from triple digits, I made a mental note: “Write a column about the dumbest law in the state of Arizona.”…