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CHAPTER SEVEN
*Brodi “Bro” - Tail Gunner*
Blood Mountain, paradise in Georgia. Today, we leave behind the twisty mountain roads for a weekend spent on nothing but flats. Gulf Coast Biker Week is fun for the booze, bimbos, and bumps, but not for the thrill of the topography. The farther south we get, the straighter the roads are. At least it has a beach — something we definitely are lacking up here. Hanging out at the saloon and seeing Lace is always a bonus, too.
This early, the traffic is sparse and the temperature is cool. Perfect morning to ride. Against the still faintly-dark sky, with the gleam of the waning moonlight bouncing off our waxed shines, we look like a group of black beetles on the move. Big, loud, fast ones.
The first main straight hits, and Chaz, a couple car lengths ahead beside Baylor, raises his hand high, middle finger up. Five seconds later, his chest is balanced against the tank, arms and legs out, body forming a U like he is a glorious superhero. Fucking blowhard. Chaz is the reason why I always carry a trauma kit, long trip or not. We all stunt, but he brings the risk to a whole new level.
He and I are night and day when it comes to our body’s response to riding. He buzzes from the thrill of stunts. Getting on my bike acts as a tranquilizer for me. The steady vibration of tires against asphalt and my constant need to cycle my focus between riders, ensuring everyone’s safety, calms me down. Only a few things in life have the ability to do that; otherwise, I pretty much stay chronically on edge.
Zane is riding to my right, his sleek Beemer carving the curves. Even though Hell for Leather has been running in this area for a while now, most of the Florida natives of the group still hesitate to lean far enough to spark the pavement on the mountain edge side. As a Midwest native, Vee has experienced his fair share of mountainous terrain. Zane and I were born in these North Georgia twisties, though, and will probably die in them. If we survive the responsibilities our employer pins on us each rally, that is.
Throwing Zane to the wolves this weekend promises to be interesting. I may not be a man of faith, but I do have faith in my prospect. Zane might be timid as a mouse at first impression, but my junior year I watched him — a freshman at the time — make a kid his bitch. The idiot surprised Zane with a right hook, and that surprise quickly escalated into a schoolyard fight. Kids are still talking about it six years later, memorialized like the stories in that damn Bible he carries around.
As for me? I knew what that reaction meant; he had to react before. Numerous times. Was it surprising that I found him on the street six months ago, freshly returned — early — from a church mission? Nope. Leaving might have promised to change him, but his absence only worsened things at home while he was gone.
I knew from the get-go that our executive officers would accelerate the leadership process when they met him. Sure enough, he quickly proved himself to the club members. Straight shooter, never misses. Can grapple like a pro. Plus, he has that weird empathy thing nailed. All in all, having someone I kinda know be accepted into the ranks is nice. I just hope he doesn’t tuck tail and run after his initiation assignment.
Just as Kal at the front is teasing the pegs at the next turn, a deep, bassy horn blares behind me, mixing with the noise from the wind blowing through my helmet and gaiter. Scanning the formation, I watch for cues from each rider, ensuring they all heard and are preparing for what that honk means — tighter grips, posture adjustments, side-mirror glances.
Every time I hear that sound, it brings me back to when I was a kid riding as a passenger in a cage, pumping my arm up and down while passing a semi truck with the hopes that they’ll honk their horn.
Now, truckers who recognize our patches are the ones begging for a show. All the riders’ eyes go to the front, waiting to see if Kal is peppy enough today to give the signal.
He is.
Three fingers go up.
After counting three Mississippis in my head, I pop into a sit-down wheelie.
As the member with the fastest bike, I tend to complain about my position as Tail Gunner, but not when we perform a group wheelie. From this vantage, I see everything we stand for. Family.
Going from sixteen wheels to eight on a mountain straight is fucking beautiful. Plus, since no one can see me except for the trucker, I get to keep it up a little longer than the rest of them.
Brake lights flash at the front of the formation, and their bikes lean, pulling onto an overlook. The truck gives us one more friendly honk as it drives past.
Everyone parks, dismounts, and removes their helmets. No one speaks while the sky changes colors one slow minute at a time.
The club may have decided to recruit a chaplain, but this’ll always be the way we really pray before a trip.
Nothing beats a come-to-Jesus moment while watching the sunrise from the top of a mountain. You’re here, alive, and guess-the-hell-what? This may be your very last dawn. There’s no better way to spend it than here, as close to Heaven as you’ll ever get.
As close to Heaven any of us will ever get.
The members of Hell for Leather have an afterlife table reserved with the devil…
…and we’re okay with that.
