Page 110 of Nuts

“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!