We rolled past exit 53, and I couldn’t help but laugh to myself at the portion of the image that remained on the billboard. My photoshop skills weren’t stellar, but they were good enough to merge the picture of Percy’s dick into the open mouth of an ATF agent’s wife. It looked much better that the beer bottle that was in the original picture.

The agent that had been held captive not only held true to his word, but he also helped resolve an issue Percy had with giving his word, and not keeping a promise.

As we turned onto the street that led to our home, Crip and Peyton were pulling out of the driveway. Upon seeing us, they turned around and parked.

We pulled up to their side, and Percy shut off the engine.

“Hey Joey,” Peyton chimed. “Love those jeans. They make your butt look sexy.”

I was wearing jeans that were too tight, and a sleeveless top that looked much better on the rack than it did on me. I smiled nonetheless. “Thanks, but I don’t feel very sexy today.”

“Well, you look it,” she said.

I pulled off my helmet. “You’re sweet. What are you guys doing?”

Crip offered a sharp nod. “Growing old waiting on you two idiots, that’s what.”

“Pleasure seeing you, too,” I said.

He smiled and gave a nod. “Smudge.”

I climbed off and gave a sharp nod in return. “Crip.”

“I want you two to look at something before it goes to print,” she said. “My boss has approved it, but I don’t want to do it without you guys seeing it first.”

Peyton was an award-winning reporter for the San Diego tribune newspaper. I wondered what she might have that she needed my opinion on, “What is it?”

She opened Crip’s saddle bag, pulled out a thin newspaper, and motioned toward the house. “Want to go inside?”

I heard Percy open the garage door.

“No,” I said. “I’ll just sit here on the lawn chair.”

Percy must have read my mind, because he showed up with four chairs. After unfolding them in a row, I sat down.

Peyton handed me the newspaper. “It’s two pages. The front page is the article, and the second page is the photo that I’d like to put with it. It’ll be a front-page piece if you like it.”

The headline was catchy.

Peyton paced the driveway nervously. As Percy tinkered in the garage, Crip sat down at my side. I unfolded the newspaper and began to read the article.

In 1848, the California Gold rush started. There were no laws regarding property rights at the time, and the prospectors staked claim to their land. Out of respect, that claim of territory was honored. Two years later, California became a state. A state filled with men who lived their lives respecting the territorial claim of others.

The gold miners were dreamers who sought freedom in a country that was free. They came to California hoping to live a life in a state that was filled with men who gave respect. When a man gave his word, you could trust that he would honor it. His loyalty was proof that he’d meet your expectations.

A century and a half passed. Times changed. Ideals changed. Men changed. Today, the men of California still dream. They seek freedom in a country that is free.

They do so not from horseback, but from the seats of their American V-Twin.

Today, SoCal Outlaw Motorcycle Clubs battle over turf, willing to die for what they believe they’re entitled to. As difficult as it may be for the layman to digest such behavior, doing so only requires understanding the meaning of one simple word.

Respect.

If one club respected the other, they’d never attempt to claim the right to territory that had already been spoken for.

No differently than their horse riding counterparts, out of honor, they’d provide respect.

Twenty years ago, a man stood for these old-school values. He attempted to change minds, and in turn, change processes. He lost his life while trying to defuse a war that was brewing between his club and a rival club.

His memory, and his processes, live on today through his daughter and the Motorcycle Club she proudly rides with as an Ol’ Lady of a patched member.

Respect. Loyalty. Trust. Honor. The men who rode in the motorcycle clubs of yesteryear lived by these words. In the next four weeks, we’ll learn how this SoCal Motorcycle Club is changing minds and processes back to the ideals of yesteryear.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. I glanced at Peyton. She paused and raised her eyebrows.

“Done?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Turn the page,” she said.

I turned the page.

Holy cow!

Seeing the two black and white photos caused me to go numb.

On the left was the photo of my pregnant mother and my father that Percy had purchased the rights to. On the right was a photo of Percy and me. I recognized the clothes I was wearing – I’d worn them two weeks prior during a poker run to Los Angeles – but I had no idea anyone had taken a picture of us.

It was apparent, however, that Percy did.

Through tear-filled eyes, I gazed at the photo. I found it hard to believe it could even exist.

It was further proof that I was where I belonged.

“What is it?” Percy peered over my shoulder. “Holy shit.”

Holy shit was right.

Percy’s right hand rested on the ape hangers. His left arm was extended straight out, toward whoever held the camera.

His middle finger was extended high in the air.

Unware the photo was being taken, I sat behind him, resting my head against his shoulder. My baby bump was pressed tight to his back, and my eyes fixed on the horizon ahead.

I wiped my tears with the heel of my palm, and stood.

Peyton stopped pacing and turned toward me. “Well?”

With the newspaper gripped tightly in my hands, I rested my forearms against my protruding belly. I held photos of two generations of soon to be families, both of which were clinging to a system of beliefs, and seeking freedom.

I turned to face Percy. I needed his approval, but it was clear that he couldn’t speak any better than I. We were both an emotional mess. The article, and the photos, were perfect.

He wiped his tear-filled eyes with his forearm.

I clenched my fist and held it between us, waiting for a yes or a no.

He didn’t make me wait long.

As his knuckles pounded against mine, Peyton screeched.

“It’ll be the front page of Sundays paper,” she said. “That edition is color, but the photos will be black and white.”

A nod was all I could offer her.

Standing in the middle of the driveway, I was a quivering ball of pregnant emotion. Nonetheless, I tilted my head back, looked up, and gave credit where credit was due.

Billy junior will be born in a few months. If he’s half the man you were, and half the man Percy is, maybe he’ll be able to fix this mess.

Until then, keep the shiny side up and the dirty side down.

Tell mom I said hi.

I love you both.

Then, I clenched my fist and held it to the sky.