The club rode out at nine on Saturday, and I was there.
I'd been to the clubhouse a dozen times by then, but this was different. This was the annual ride — every member, every old lady, every bike that could hold a full tank and run a hundred miles without complaint. The lot looked like a dealership threw up in the best possible way.
I parked my Softail at the edge of the formation, next to the bikes I was starting to know by sound. Sticks' Dyna. Banjo's Fat Boy. Bruiser's chopper, loud enough to wake the county.
Tank walked over before the engines fired, and the crowd parted around him the way it always did. He stopped beside my bike, looking down at me, and something in his face softened.
`You ready?'' he asked.
`Born ready.''
`It's a long ride.''
`Good.'' I pulled my helmet on. `
