Joey

We exited the main street, and turned down a two-lane side road. On our left, dozens of motorcycles were parked in front of a metal building that resembled a warehouse or manufacturing building. In the center of the roof’s gable, four simple letters gave hint as to who lurked behind the building’s walls.

FFMC

My heart raced.

“Hold on,” he said. “Tight!”

I gripped his waist firm in my hands.

He twisted the throttle, pinning me against the backrest. We shot down the empty street, directly toward the entrance to the building. Our speed increased to what I guessed to be 60 miles an hour.

There was no way we could make the turn.

Holy crap!

He pressed the rear brake pedal, sending us into a tailspin. We slid past the entrance, spun around 180-degrees, and then he hit the throttle again. As if it were something he’d done a thousand times, he shot into the lot and came to a stop.

A man leaning against the edge of the open garage door crossed his arms in front of his chest. Tattooed from head to toe, including his neck and lower jaw, the man looked mean.

And angry.

His eyes thinned. “God damn it, ‘Nut. You’re going to fucking kill someone.”

I let out a sigh and glanced at him. His vest said it all.

President.

Crip.

I removed my helmet, got off the bike, and laid it on the rear seat.

Percy chuckled. “I was in control the entire time, Prez.”

“Hey Joey,” someone shouted.

I turned toward the voice. Sandy stood at Smokey’s side. Wearing jeans, a fitted tee, and a bandana, she and her baby bump looked adorable.

Excited to see at least one familiar face, I waved.

“Follow me,” Percy said.

He introduced me to Pee Bee and Tegan, Crip and Peyton, and Cholo and Lex. Dozens of other men wandered around the parking lot, talking and looking at the motorcycles, but we didn’t talk to any of them.

I recalled what Bama said about Pee Bee resembling my father. I stole a look at him every chance I got, and imaging what everyone must have thought about my dad. Pee Bee was an intimidating figure, towering above all the other men.

But he was jovial.

I wondered if my father was the same.

“Listen up,” Crip shouted. “We’re headed to San Clemente, and that’s where this motherfucker starts. There’ll be no hot-dogging, no horseshit, and no changing rank. You ride at the end of this motherfucker where you rode at the beginning. When we pull out of this lot, who you’re paired up with is who you run with for the day. I know we’ve got a couple of hang arounds in attendance, but as always, colors in the front, and colors in the rear.”

He scanned the crowd, and then continued. “Guess that’s it. It’s a beautiful fucking day in SoCal, let’s have a good little run. Fuckers Forever!”

“Forever Fuckers!” the crowd shouted in response.

He raised his fist high in the air. “Saddle up!”

“Hop on,” Percy said. “We’re up front with dip-shit.”

“You don’t like him?” I whispered.

“I love the son-of-a-bitch, but don’t tell him that.”

I grinned and grabbed my helmet. “You’ve got it, Boss.”

The air thickened with the sound of two-dozen motorcycles revving their exhaust. My heart raced. Percy inched his bike into the street, and sat in wait.

Crip and another man pulled out side by side. Then, Pee Bee and Cholo pulled out. Smokey followed, and we pulled alongside him. Another two followed. And then, another two. I watched over my shoulder as the process continued.

With a mechanical expertise that resembled members of a marching band, we rode from the clubhouse to San Clemente.

When were close enough to the location for me to see it, my jaw hit my lap. I didn’t have to ask if it was where we were going.

The sea of motorcycles gave it away.

I would guess that most girls my age would see a few thousand motorcycles as an eye sore. To me, it was a work of art. A masterpiece. Thousands of men, and their machines, all seeking the same thing.

A slice of freedom.

We pulled into the lot, parked together, and walked as a group to a large tent at the corner of the parking lot. After receiving our envelope, Percy handed it to me. “You’re in charge of that. Don’t lose it.”

I looked at Sandy. She shoved the envelope in her front pocket.

I did the same and then looked at Percy. “I won’t.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Sandy said. “This is going to be a great run.”

She was right. It was 75 degrees, sunny, and there was no wind whatsoever.

“It’s going to be fun.” I looked over each shoulder, and tried to comprehend what was happening. I couldn’t fathom how everyone could even get out of the parking lot. “This is crazy.”

“Wait until everyone leaves,” she said. “It gives me goosebumps every time.”

After listening to an announcement, and hearing all the rules over a loudspeaker, the men pulled out two by two, until there were motorcycles for as far as the eye could see.

Helicopters flew overhead, undoubtedly filming for the news. At the intersections, police we positioned, stopping traffic. For that day, during that run, the men on the motorcycles had precedence.

Being a part of such an event made my heart swell.

We stopped at San Clemente, Santa Ana, Riverside, Palm Springs, and then rode to Temecula.

The Harley dealer was our last stop, and where Percy said they’d give away the prizes. We were scheduled to eat lunch there, but I couldn’t imagine a few thousand people all eating at the same time.

When we pulled into the parking lot, it was a reenactment of what I’d seen in the morning. Only much smaller. A large tent sat in the corner of the lot, and a few smaller tents were set up on each side.

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“Some ride slower than others,” he explained. “They’ll be filtering in for the next hour or two. We’ll park and eat.”

It made sense. The people who left San Clemente first would arrive at Temecula first. It probably took an hour or more for all of the people to get out of the parking lot when the run started.

I compared it to people leaving a concert or large event, and it made perfect sense.

We parked, turned in our card, and loaded our plates with barbeque. While we ate beneath the shade of one of the smaller tents, I watched the steady stream of motorcycles come into the lot.

The constant rumbling of the exhaust, the smell of adrenaline, and the bravado of the men hung heavily in the air.

I was in heaven.

After we ate, the men talked, told stories, and drank the free beer. Old friends met, hugged, and shook hands. New friends were made. Men did burn-outs on their bikes, revved their exhaust, and showed off their paintjobs.

But, even though numerous motorcycle clubs were in attendance, no one fought. It was a day to celebrate freedom, the open road, and a love for one thing.

Riding.

We walked to the large tent, and stood beside a small makeshift stage. A man stepped up to a microphone, blew into it, and laughed.

“Everyone have a good time?”

The crowd cheered.

“Good food?”

More cheering followed.

“Alright. We appreciate your attendance today. Proceeds for this event will be tallied, and the numbers will be on our website by tomorrow end of day. In case you’re unaware, every dollar spent will be donated to the Suicide Awareness Foundation. Twenty-two veterans a day commit suicide, and that’s twenty-two too many. We’re playing our part to bring that number down to zero. Now, before we announce any winners, we have one more announcement.”

He held the microphone at his side. A big man in a leather vest walked up the steps, and got on stage. A red bandana covered his head, and sunglasses hid his eyes. Beneath his left arm, it appeared he had a black leather binder hidden.

He took the microphone and cleared his throat. “Not much for talking to groups, so I’ll keep this short,” he said, his voice raspy and weathered. “Everyone in attendance today has one thing in common with the man beside him. Doesn’t matter if you’re a 1%er, a weekender, or if you ride in a do-gooder bike club. We’re all after the same thing. Freedom. During our time on the road, we’ve escaped the man, his rules, his regulations, and the cages he peddles to the unknowing. On our time on the road, we’re free.”

The crowd roared.

He raised his hand. “Being in a club is about a lot of things, but first and foremost, it’s about respect. You give, and you get. But you give first. Some don’t adhere to that policy. Some men, some clubs, they take. And, in turn, they are dealt with. It saddens me when we have such men in this fine state we reside in, but we have it nonetheless. Today, I stand before a bunch of men who respect their fellow brothers. Today, that respect earns each man in attendance a spot beside the man at his side, regardless of who he is, or what club he represents.”

He took off his glasses and hung them on his vest.

I gasped.

Bama!

“Brothers and sisters, listen up.”

The crowd fell silent.

“There once was a man who stood for freedom, and when he stood, he stood above the rest. He opposed only those who threatened harm on his brethren, and he died giving his life for his system of beliefs. Today, we honor that man, and his system of beliefs. Today, ladies and gentlemen, we have honor of having the daughter of Billy The Snake Schreiber in attendance.”

I fought against the tears that welled in my eyes.

He looked right at me. “Joey, can you come up here for a moment?”

I looked at Percy. My entire body shook. “I can’t…”

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

Together, we walked on stage. I stepped to Bama’s side, and he gave me a side-hug.

“I’d like to present the Snake’s daughter with two things today.” He handed Percy the microphone, and took the objects from under his arm. “First, I’ve got this.”

He handed me a hardbound book. “A signed copy of To Hell and Back. A book about the MC her father so faithfully represented. And, this.”

He handed me a leather vest.

“Her first kutte. It’s clean, and ready for her to patch it up with whatever she chooses.” He grinned. “Or earns.”

He extended his hand.

I clenched my fist and held it between us.

He smiled, made a fist, and tapped his knuckles against mine.

“Brothers and sisters, if you see her in the crowds today, thank her for her father’s sacrifice. If it wasn’t for him, and men like him, none of us would be here.”

He lowered the mic. “Have you got anything to say?”

I bit against my lower lip and nodded.

He handed me the microphone. “Take your time,” he whispered.

I spoke without really thinking. It seemed to come naturally, simply flowing from my mind to my mouth. “My father died when I was two. I never really knew him. My mother told me stories of his code of ethics, and how he lived his life reciting the importance of four simple words. His generation was different. Men of his era stood up for what they believed in, and they believed in very little. Words that he lived by are rarely used today. Oddly, those four simple words were his code of ethics. They assembled his system of moral beliefs. They were respect, loyalty, trust, and honor.”

I gazed out at the thousands of people and held my head high. “Today, I give respect to those who earn it. It doesn’t come easy. I respect the two men on this stage. You want my respect? Give it to me. I’ll give it in return. I am loyal to very few people. Two, to be exact. Myself and to the man at my left. For me, trust is like respect, it’s earned. The man on my left has earned it, so he gets it. Lastly, honor. Today, I honor the memory of my father. I hope some of you are able to do the same. When you leave here, show some respect to the man on your left. He just might give it back to you tenfold. Honor those who have earned your admiration, and give trust and respect only those who have earned your love.”

I handed Bama the mic.

“That about wraps it up, Brothers and Sisters,” Bama said. “We’ll be taking donations up until 5:00. If you’d like to...”

Someone shouted from the rear of the crowd.

Another joined in.

And then, another.

Over the sound of Bama talking, I couldn’t tell what they were saying. He lowered the mic and paused. Then, the crowd’s chants became clear.

“Snake! Snake! Snake! Snake!”

Some raised their fists. Others soon followed.

Within a matter of minutes, the entire crowd held their fists high.

“Snake! Snake! Snake!”

My heart swelled with pride.

I tilted my head to toward the sky, closed my eyes, and exhaled.

Hear that, dad?

That’s something you’ve earned.

Respect.