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“All right,” Z shouts over our combined chatter. “I’m not going to give the same lecture Rock probably gave Upstate—”
“Because you already lectured us before they got here, Prez!” Rooster shouts.
Z’s guys—even Grinder—share a laugh. I elbow Grinder and he glances over at me. “Who really laid down the law? You or Z?” I ask in a low voice.
He flashes a quick—but savage—grin. “Who do you think?”
Jigsaw moves up and down the line of his brothers’ bikes, finally stopping in front of mine.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Let’s do it.”
I hold my arm out and he grips my hand, leaning in to bump my shoulder.
Since this is a serious ride, not one for fun, and we’ll be traveling close to potentially hostile territory, we’ll ride in a different formation than usual. We also have two charters, so that switches things up for us. When we meet up with our Virginia charter, we’ll change the order again.
But for now, our two SAAs ride in front of the pack. Wrath and Grinder will keep an eye out for cops and potential threats. Jigsaw and I will ride at the back of the pack, to make sure no one falls behind and to be there to help any brothers with mechanical issues that crop up along the way. From this position I’ll be able to keep my eye on Sparky, who hasn’t quite moved to acceptance about this trip yet.
Rock and Z start their engines first. Then Rooster and Murphy.
Finally it’s our turn. Jiggy glances over at me and nods.
I start my engine. Satisfaction surges through my veins as my machine rumbles to life beneath me, ready to conquer the miles of road ahead.
Two by two we pull out of Downstate’s parking lot. Hustler waves to us as we roar past the gate, closing it behind Jigsaw and me.
The highway’s clear this early. Riding with the whole club is slightly different than riding alone or even with a few brothers. There’s no weaving in and out of traffic. We stick together. Riding as one. No one speeds ahead or shows off.
Outside of Harrisburg we hit traffic that forces us to switch up the formation. My brothers seamlessly make the transition to riding in a single line.
The wind rushes by, tugging and pulling at my clothes. Tingles race over my skin where it’s exposed at the wrists between my gloves and the edges of my sleeves.
No glass or metal barrier protects me from the blacktop.
It’s freedom, exhilaration, and a pinch of fear all rolled into one.
About five hours in, Wrath signals we’re getting off the highway for a break. I’d given him the location of the large rest station that should be biker-friendly and in neutral territory before we left.
People stop and stare as our bikes thunder into the stadium-sized parking lot. We circle the building once and line our bikes up on the side, finally shutting them down.
“Fuuck,” Jiggy slips his helmet off and rubs his crotch. “I think I nutted myself on that fucking pothole coming in here.”
“Should we call you a wahhmbulence?” Stash asks, snickering at his own joke.
“I missed the pothole but my nuts still fucking hurt,” Sparky grumbles. “Why the fuck didn’t we take a break earlier?”
Since he’s bitching about it, I feel it’s my road captain duty to share some advice. “Try to sit further back in the seat if you can.”
Jigsaw slaps Sparky’s shoulder. “Stand on the pegs once in a while and reposition your boys.”
“How much longer until Roanoke?” Sparky whines.
“Bro, we got five more hours.” Wrath thumps him on the back. “What’s wrong?”
“His balls hurt,” Stash says.
“Nut up and shut up.” Wrath slaps his shoulder, turns around, and heads inside.
“Sage advice, Sasquatch!” Sparky yells. “Thanks a lot.”
Without turning around, Wrath throws a middle finger over his shoulder.
“Oh boy. Sparky’s haaangry,” Stash says, drawing out the annoying, made-up word. “You need a sugar fix, bro? Want me to buy you a Kit Kat bar and jam it up your ass?”
“Bro, you ain’t gettin’ anywhere near my ass,” Sparky shoves Stash sideways, “no matter how much you beg.”
“All right,” I say, breaking up their bickering. “Let’s all stretch our legs and hydrate.”
“And air out our balls,” Jigsaw interrupts, standing bowlegged and waving his hand between his legs.
“You do you, bro.” I shoot a glare at him. “But do it away from me.”
On the way into the giant convenience store, I pull Sparky aside. Lecturing him about how he wouldn’t be having such a hard time if he rode more often won’t improve the situation, but another stop might. “You think you’d feel better if we stop again, say, in two hours?”
He purses his lips, then nods. “Yeah, that might help.”
“All right, brother.” I pat his shoulder, and then jog back to the bikes to talk to Grinder.
“You doing all right?” I ask.
