Peyton

I sat on the hard fender with my hands at his waist and tilted my head back. Riding on the back of Navarro’s bike was like flying, and each time I did it, I grew a little fonder of it. While we rode along Mission Beach Boulevard looking for a place to eat, I thought of the phrase as free as a bird, and wondered if most bikers felt no differently than I did.

Riding was an unexplainable thrill, something that words couldn’t come close to accurately describing, but the word flying immediately came to mind. With the feeling of flight came a sense of freedom.

When I recognized the sense of freedom, it all made sense.

The outlaw biker really wanted nothing more than to be left to his own devices. The ride freed them from the clutch of whatever it was that brought them to drop their respective asses into the seat in the first place.

The satisfaction from riding seemed to be much different after the incident. Before, I enjoyed it immensely, but other than the thrill of being on the back of the bike, nothing else happened. After the incident, the ride seemed to rid me of all contamination, leaving me feeling cleansed of everything that was impure.

I couldn’t help but wonder if each and every hard-core biker had some underlying reason – some catastrophe in their life – that made riding more of a necessity, and not merely a simple desire.

We parked in front of a small taco shop. I adjusted my hair tie and reluctantly released Navarro’s waist. “I have a lot of questions to ask while we’re waiting on food.”

He stepped off the bike and steadied it for me to get off. “I thought you’d be done with that article by now.”

“Actually, I haven’t even started,” I said. “But this has nothing to do with the article. Not really.”

“Ask me anything you want,” Pee Bee said. “But prepare for the truth. I won’t bullshit you like Ol’ Crip.”

I climbed off the fender. “How did he get his name?”

Navarro shot me a look. I winked at him.

“Crip. Short for cripple. Because he’s an old man.”

I looked at Navarro. “True?”

He nodded. “That’s what it stands for, but I’m far from an old man.”

“What about yours,” I asked Pee Bee.

“P. B.,” Navarro said. “Pretty Boy. Because he looks like a bearded girl.”

I laughed. “Pretty Boy and Crip. I like it.”

“Come on,” Pee Bee said. “I’ve got to feed the machine.”

I followed them into the restaurant, feeling much better than when I was at work. Riding was therapeutic, and whether or not I wanted to admit it, I needed a little therapy in my life.

“Why do you ride?” I asked Navarro as we sat down.

“Me?”

I nodded. “Yes, you.”

“Big picture?”

“Sure.”

He folded his fingers together as if he was preparing to pray. I studied his tattooed knuckles. On his upper knuckles, the word STAY. On the lower, REAL. It was easy to get lost in admiring his tattoos, and I enjoyed doing it.

“It’s hard to explain,” he said. “I get a sense of freedom when I ride that I can’t seem to get anywhere else. Being in a cage makes me feel like I’m locked up. Like an animal. The difference between riding and driving is the difference between a tiger in the wild, and one in a zoo.”

“And by cage, you mean a car?”

“Yep. A car is a cage. That’s what we call ‘em, anyway. Write that in your little fucking article.”

“I like that. And, I reserve the right to use it.” I turned to Pee Bee. “What about you?”

“You like rollercoasters?”

I grinned. “Love ‘em.”

He arched a brow. “Love ‘em, or like ‘em a lot?”

“Love ‘em.”

“Can you imagine riding one to work? And home? Like every day? Wouldn’t that be fuckin’ cool?”

“I wish there was one that went from my townhouse to my office. That’d be awesome.”

“I ride for the same reason people ride a roller coaster or jump off a cliff. It thrills me. Basically, I’ve got a rollercoaster that takes me everywhere.”

“Drinks?” the waitress asked.

“Budweiser.”

“Budweiser.”

“And you?” she asked.

“Budweiser,” I responded.

“Menus are on in the condiment caddy, I’ll be back in a few.”

“What’s good here?”

“Fish tacos,” Pee Bee said. “Don’t even look at the menu, just order.”

“Seriously?”

“Bitch, do I look like I’d steer you wrong?”

He wasn’t as tattooed as Navarro. Hell, no one was. But both of his upper biceps had tattoos, each of his shoulders were covered in a tribal pattern, and he had a star tattooed on his upper forearms.

To the unknowing, he looked like a thug.

But I knew deep down inside that he’d never steer me wrong.

“No,” I said.

He raked his fingers through his long hair and leaned back in his seat. “Then get the fish tacos.”

The waitress brought our drinks. “Three Bud’s.”

She handed us the bottles of beer. “Had a chance to look at the menu?”

“Don’t need to,” I said. “I want the fish tacos.”

“One order of fish tacos.”

She looked at Pee Bee. “And you?”

“Fish tacos.”

“What about you?”

Navarro’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Give me the pork chili verde. Corn tortillas.”

“Just couldn’t go for the fish tacos?” She joked. “Make it easy?”

“I’m a non-conformist, and nothing’s ever easy for me,” he responded.

“What a surprise,” she said.

I didn’t totally agree, but I kept my mouth shut. In my opinion, Navarro was a non-conformist, but I believed life was extremely easy for him.

All Navarro had to do to succeed in life was be Navarro.

And being Navarro, at least for him, came naturally.