Bobbi

Everything. I could smell everything. Freshly cut grass. The hot dogs that a vendor was selling on the boardwalk. Funnel cakes. A distant restaurant’s lunchtime special. The odor from the exhaust of a truck ahead.

I could taste the salt in the air.

I extended my arms to the side, and allowed the rush of wind to beat against them. I’d always dreamt of riding on a motorcycle, but doubted I’d ever have the chance. Even after Tate offered it, I convinced myself it would never happen.

I was pleased to admit that I was wrong.

With the ocean filling the horizon on my right, we continued to travel down the oceanfront road at a leisurely speed.

The ride was much more comfortable than I expected it would be. Leaning against the backrest removed what little fear I had of falling off, and Tate’s riding skills provided comfort that I wasn’t placing myself unnecessarily in harm’s way.

I thought I’d spent months getting to know Tate. In reality, I had two days experience in discovering who he truly was. So far, I liked what I had found.

He may have been a member of an outlaw biker gang, but that wasn’t who he was. He was kind, considerate, polite, and he saw me as being what I’d always felt I was – despite what everyone else thought – a woman who was just as beautiful on the outside as she was on the inside.

We turned left, following the road to the east. With the sun in our faces, we rode to the traffic light and came to a stop.

“You alright?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I’m great.”

“You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“I think I’m in shock.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to ride on one of these things. It’s better than I imagined.”

“It’s rare to take a ride and not smile at some point. Two-wheeled therapy. It’s my way of clearing my mind.”

The light switched to green.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He released the clutch and accelerated up the block. I gazed along the streets as we rode past, seeing much more than I would have if I was driving. I now knew how the gulls on the beach could see a piece of bread from a hundred yards away.

Their view was unobstructed.

I moved my head to the side, away from the protection he provided. As the wind whipped my hair into a tangled mess, I closed my eyes and imagined I was flying. My life had quickly gone from reading about women who had been swept away from their ho-hum existence to truly being swept away from my ho-hum existence.

My life wasn’t meaningless, nor was it overly boring. One thing, however, that I’d learned to live without was the presence of a male counterpart. Having Tate show genuine interest in me beyond the confines of the prison provided a boost to my ego.

I’d always been a confident woman. Even as a child, I never lacked self-esteem. When the children in school teased me and called me names, I still managed to hold my head high, knowing I was a much better person than they were.

Despite my belief that I was a beautiful woman, having someone confirm it was the ultimate reward. Especially when they were as handsome and talented as TD Reynolds.

We slowed our speed, turned right, and then right again. As he turned into a coffee shop’s parking lot, I tried to accept that at least for the time being, that the ride was over.

He came to a stop, and then lowered the kickstand. “What do you think?”

“I never thought I’d say this, but I like riding more than I like driving my car.”

He pulled off his helmet. “Seriously?”

“Oh yeah. This is awesome.”

I pulled off my helmet. After seeing him hang his on the handlebars by the chin strap, I assumed I should do the same thing. I didn’t want him to perceive me as being unaware of standard biker protocol, even though I was.

My knowledge was limited to a handful of Sons of Anarchy episodes I’d binged on in preparation of our ride, and the books that I’d read.

I carefully hung my helmet on the right side of the handlebars and climbed off.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” he said.

“My dad had a Camaro convertible when I was little. It kind of reminds me of riding in it, only better.”

“Not much beats being on a Harley.”

“Does it matter what kind you ride?”

He waved his hand toward the door. “Depends on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Men get the same satisfaction out of riding sport bikes that I get out of riding that HOG. It’s personal preference. Old-school bikers used to have a hard-on for guys on rice burners, but it’s not that way anymore. We all share a love for the open road.”

“That’s good that everyone can get along.”

He opened the door. “I don’t ‘get along’ with anyone unless they earn my respect.”

I walked past him and smiled. “You get along with me just fine.”

“You were respectful from the beginning. That was your ‘in’.” He chuckled. “That, and your good looks.”

“Thanks for noticing.”

“Tough not to. You’re pretty like that.”

“I meant the respect part of your statement.”

“Same thing. Tough not to notice. Get tattooed and buy a Harley. You’ll learn pretty damned quick who’s judgmental and who’s not.”

“It’s sad people are that way,” I said.

“Welcome to the life of being ‘different’.”

It was something I knew a little bit about. It seemed if a girl wasn’t 5’-5” and weighed a hundred and ten pounds, she was considered repulsive. I knew I was overweight, but having people treat me like I was an outcast because of it got old.

Just once I wanted to put someone in their place after they gave a judgemental look or made a snide remark.

We each ordered an iced coffee and then sat outside in the late morning sun. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t remember ever enjoying a Saturday morning as much as that one. The early morning ride, the perfect Southern California weather, and the subtle reassurances from Tate about me being beautiful were enough to place the day high on my list of best days ever.

A topless Chevy Blazer pulled in between us and the motorcycle as we finished out drinks. As the three board short wearing surfers dug through the console looking for money, we stood and tossed our cups in the trash.

After maneuvering around the front of Blazer, Tate climbed on the motorcycle and started it. As I reached for my helmet, I watched the three surfers spill over the top of the doors without opening them.

The lanky driver looked at us and then tapped the tanned shoulder of his blond-haired companion.

“Can you believe he’s with that fat bitch?”

“Dude,” the blond said. “They ought to make a law against yoga pants in triple XL.”

The other chuckled a laugh. “Brah.”

I buckled my helmet and let out a sigh.

Tate flipped the engine off, took off his helmet, and hung it on the handlebars. After stepping off the bike, he looked at me and grinned a mischievous grin.

“I’ll be right back.”

I gave him a look. “Did you forget something?”

He raised his index finger. “Wait right here.”

As he walked toward the front door, he dragged his thumb through the inside of his back pocket. It dawned on me that he carried his razor in that pocket, and then I wondered if he might have overheard the surfers.

I watched through the glass walls of the building as Tate approached the three men. Standing a few feet away from them, he gestured toward me, and then lowered his hands. As the blonde appeared to argue, Tate balled his fists.

I couldn’t hear what was being said, but it was apparent the blond-haired asshole didn’t agree with what was being said. In opposition, he took a step back and lifted his hands slightly.

It proved to be a major mistake on his part.

Tate’s right hand plowed into the blonde’s nose, sending him stumbling toward the counter. While he struggled to keep from falling, Tate faced the other two men.

Both of their heads shook from side to side frantically, and their open hands shot into the air as if they were being robbed. Tate glanced at the blond, who now had his hands cupping his bloody nose.

Tate waved his left hand toward the door, and then looked at the blond. He nodded in response.

Tate stepped aside.

The three men walked through the door, around the back of their car, and up to the side of the motorcycle.

“These fellas have something they need to tell you,” Tate said.

The driver, a lanky mop-haired kid about twenty years old, looked up. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

Tate cleared his throat.

The kid’s gaze dropped to the ground. After a few seconds, he looked up. “I’m sorry I said you were fat. It was inconsiderate and childish. I’ll keep my opinions to myself from here on out. It’ll never happen to you or anyone else, ever again.”

“Thank you.”

The blond wiped his nose with his thumb and then looked at his bloody hand. His nose had all but stopped bleeding, but his face was smeared with blood. He looked at me and let out a sigh.

“I apologize for making the comment about what you were wearing. It won’t happen to you or anyone else, ever again.”

“Thank you.”

Tate glanced at the three men. “Have a nice day, fellas.”

The one who didn’t say anything smiled. “You, too.”

As they walked away, I looked at Tate. “Thank you.”

He shook his head and reached for his helmet. “Respect.” He buckled his helmet and lifted his leg over the seat. “It never gets old teaching people how to show it to others.”

Tate Reynolds may not have been able to change the world, but he sure giving it one hell of a try.

One bloody nose at a time.