It’s mid-morning in a small Portuguese town, and I am standing in a dirt parking lot, which is rapidly filling up with hundreds, and then thousands, of motorcycles.
The machines range from very large to pretty small; some are classics, and some are brand new. As they arrive, so do thousands of men and women, many clad in leather or jean vests — they’re “cuts,” in biker jargon — emblazoned with the logos — “patches” — of an enormous variety of motorcycle clubs.
The bikers laugh, greet and hug each other, and try to make themselves heard over the roar of engines.
