88 cuts and winds through rock and green, the blacktop faded to ash gray. Moisture clings to the air until it's burned up by California sun, save where the trees provide coverage, leafy shadows, patched and cool. This is Nor-Cal, after all. Eventually I slow down and turn off onto a winding backroad unknown to me and feel the temperature drop as I hit shade, the headlight of my Nightster cutting a pale, misty glow through the lay-lowing fog.
It's 5:30am. Morning has always been my favorite time of day. Beautiful, and as I'm reminded now, sometimes a little eerie. I left the shitty motel I spent last night in less than an hour ago, when the moon was still clinging to the sky. Usually the pastel colors of pre-sunrise coat my worries but today I can't seem to shake off the morning chill. Instinctively, my right hand tightens around the throttle, quickening toward the next patch of possible warmth and I course through the veins of a town I couldn't tell you the name of.
The road's still dead this time of day around here, a truth I was ignorant to until I left home in Connecticut a little less than 6 months ago and recently came to California. I had always thought of CA as being some massively over-populated state with houses and traffic and people around every turn—and SoCal definitely can be that—but here, up North, you can drive for miles in some places and not see all too much. It reminds me of home. Funny, isn't it, how you can feel nostalgia for a place you were yearning to get away from not so long ago?
It'll be a while before the first cars show the slow beginnings of a morning commute and by the time it hits rush hour—which won't be much in a town like this—I'll be at some diner or cafe having breakfast and figuring where I am and where I'm headed. Well, to be fair- I know exactly where I'm headed and it's awfully close. It's just a matter of how long I want to take to get there. The idea of abandoning my travels so soon hits too close to home this morning, and I take the exit back to 88 wanting to just ride a little longer, wanting to put off the idea of stopping at all, of making a new home, of Figuring Things Out.
Riding across the states these recent months has been a powerful anecdote to quell my anxieties, more than I ever could have anticipated in my choice to do so, but I know my arrival time is creeping up. I mull over the romantic nature of my journey thus far, then feel a little ridiculous for drawing parallels to myself and some character from a Kerouac novel. So I focus on the road again. It's getting lighter out but still there's no traffic.
Suddenly, I hear the rumbling of another bike. Glancing into my mirror, I see a single headlight coming up on me. Fast, and seemingly out of nowhere.
This guy is really moving.
Before I have time to worry too much, he zooms past me, flashing me a look as I stare straight ahead. His leather cut flashes "Mayans" as he leaves me in his wake. Thank God
There are a lot more MC's out here than where I'm from—but most don't want trouble with anyone, especially at this time of day and with some girl on a bike by herself who is clearly not affiliated. Still, I shake my head and slow my speed, not wanting to risk catching up to him at some point further up the road. Already far ahead of me, he turns a bend and is out of sight and I let go of a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
In general, I'm getting used to being on the road alone but I think all women can be brought down to reality regularly when they travel alone. Thankfully, thus far I've never had more than just a false alarm. My heartbeat begins to resume its normal pace...then I hear another bike on the road behind me and glance to my mirrors.
"Jesus Christ…" I breathe, tensing up. It's racing up from behind, the outline of another leather vest clear. There's a stretch of straight road behind me but he's already closed on the majority of the distance between us from when I first spotted him. What the hell is going on? I focus on just trying to ride. Slow a little, keep calm. I'm sure he'll just pass me like the other guy, I try to convince myself in vain, my fear increasing when I steal another glance in my mirror and he's almost upon me, not to my left or right to pass me, but directly behind me.
He's on me before I know it, tailing my ass. Instinctively I move to the right, keeping my speed, but he mirrors my every move. I cut left, he cuts left; I cut right, he cuts right. He stays with me, must be almost touching my back tire. I pick up my speed again, putting some distance between us, but in a moment he's right back behind me.
I can't believe this is happening.
Finally, he pulls over to the left.
Maybe he'll finally pass me. But my gut's telling me that's wishful thinking. Still I slow down, hoping he'll leave me behind him but he slows too, now pulling up beside me, directly on my left. We ride side by side as I slow little by little. I don't dare look over at him.
We're going 40, and it's still feeling damn fast. I start slowing down more, but I know I'm not going to just lose him. I know he doesn't want to pass me by like the guy before. Somehow I know this isn't a false alarm. Seconds creep by painfully slowly as I wish I were in LA, or San Diego, anywhere but this stretch of road. I wish I was in Connecticut, for crying out loud. He's still right beside me, and I cannot ignore the sinking feeling of dread in my stomach as I stare head on. What is he going to do to me? What does he want?
I've been avoiding looking at him, but he's still right beside me and finally I just can't help it. I turn my head to look to my left just in time to see his leg kick out and make contact with my bike. In the fraction of a second before I crash, I can hear that he's speeding away, leaving me behind. A flood of relief washes over me. Then I hit the ground—a blur of leather, blood, and pavement.
"Don't fuckin' move her man! You don't know how bad she's hurt." I hear a voice say, then another, "She's out. Is she breathing? Is she dead?"
Good question. I stir, keeping my eyes closed. Whoever the voices belong to don't seem to notice, talking amongst themselves as I move my arms, bringing them to my chest, lightly pushing down toward my hips in pats until I reach the middle of my ribs and wince. For someone coming to, I feel surprisingly clear. Adrenaline maybe? Still, I keep my eyes closed and try to stay silent, listening for a few more moments as three voices argue over not moving me and finally, I decide they don't seem to mean me any harm. I open my eyes and see the three men in leather cuts all facing out to the road, their words too low now for me to hear. Their patch displays a reaper with the words "Sons of Anarchy" an MC which, unsurprisingly, I haven't heard of. I lift my head, looking at my brown vintage Frye boots and try to sit up with a light, involuntary groan.
"Jesus Christ." one of the voices breathes from behind me.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on, hold on." from another, this one coming closer, "Are you okay? I don't think you should move..."
I look up at a fair haired man now kneeling above me and and furrow my brow.
Should I trust these people?…Do I have a choice?
"I think, yeah," I answer and my voice sounds coarse and loud in my head, "I'm okay." I hear myself saying as I try to mentally check in with my body parts to see whether or not I'm a liar. "My leg…" I trail off.
The fair haired man above me, the only one I can see now from my angle laying on the ground, must be around my age or perhaps a bit older. 30, maybe. He's wearing a white t-shirt beneath his cut. His blonde hair comes just above his shoulders and his scruffy facial hair does no work to hide that he's tremendously beautiful. I try to evaluate his intentions by his facial expression while he looks down at the injuries I'm complaining of. Suddenly I feel a bit stupid and abandon my attempt at clairvoyance about this man's morality. I really don't do damsel in distress well—even if I did just eat pavement off my bike. I prop myself up on my elbows, looking at the damage too.
My jeans are torn along the outside of my right knee and halfway up my thigh, road burned and bloody. My old brown leather jacket, though worn, has protected me pretty well it seems. The mans gaze follows mine, likely no stranger to road burn himself, I think as I take in the three bikes parked on the side of the road behind him. I assess my other side and notice similar injuries on my left hip, which now that I see, starts hurting too. I decide not to look for any more wounds for the time being. I know it could be worse. I'm lucky I was able to slow down as much as I did.
"Anything feel broken? How's your head? Your neck?" he inquires, and the energy with which he's firing off questions makes my head spin. His face shows genuine concern and I decide in the position that I'm in that I just have to trust him.
"Nothing feels broken," I say slowly, then quickly "I want this helmet off…" It suddenly feels heavy and claustrophobic and like I can't think or even breathe with it on. I sit up the rest of the way quickly and start to pull it off. I notice he looks anxious, his hand reaching out like he's going to stop me from trying to take off the helmet. I do it before he has the chance.
"Jesus Christ." comes from a voice behind me again and I turn to see who owns it.
I get this reaction a lot, especially from men who ride. I understand I don't necessarily look like most women who have a bike. Usually their surprise annoys me, but I look up to see that the guy already looks embarrassed at letting it slip. He's young looking, maybe of Latino decent with pretty, brown eyes, a short shaved mohawk and tribal tattoos on each side of his head. Beside him stands an older man with wild, long gray hair and a big belly. I try not to make it obvious when I look back to the blonde haired man and focus on the white letters, "SAMCRO" on the front of his vest. The "Vice President" patch then catches my eye. When I look back to his face, he's still taking in the blood on my hands and clothes. Then he starts to speak.
"I can call you an ambulance," he explains reservedly, "But we'll need to leave you here…" His eyes convey that he's trying to make me understand, to really listen to his words. Somehow, it makes me feel silly to still be sitting and I make to stand. It's not my most graceful act but I regain some composure, pick up my helmet and nod my head.
"Oh, yeah. Right," I answer. I get it. These guys don't want to be around when the cops show up. They're 1%ers, like the patches say."It's fine. I'm fine." I go on, then pause.
Honestly though, I'm fucking scared and before I even mean to, I spill my fear.
"You, just…you don't think they'll come back though, right? While I wait for the ambulance to show? I don't know how close the nearest hospital is, or how long it will take to get here."
Once I get the words out I instantly resolve that's as close as they're getting to being asked for help. I'm not going to beg these strangers to stay with me. Especially when it's probably them who somehow got me into this. I mean, what're the odds of all these guys in cuts at this time of day on this road? I know the name on the vests isn't the same as the two guys from earlier but who knows if they're allies or enemies or whatever.
"Wait…what?" The Vice President's harsh tone pulls me from my thoughts. Startled, I look to see his face has changed. He's infuriated. "Don't think who will come back?" he spits out, though I can tell his anger is mixed with a type of embarrassment for not seeing the situation more clearly, and it all clicks. He thought I just wrecked on my own! He must be able to tell my surprise at his change in demeanor and slows down, walks a little closer and looks me in the eye, "What happened? How'd you crash?" he's not demanding but he's hanging on for what I'll say.
I'm aware of the two other guys walking a little closer, both with their arms crossed, waiting for me to speak. The VP looks only at me, needing to hear me say what I can tell he already knows. I take a breath and look out to the road, unsure whether I'm even ready to relive what happened only what—minutes ago? Depending on how long I was out for.
I resolve to keep it as short as I can. "I was riding…one guy came speeding past me on a bike. Soon after that another started tailgating me. Right on my ass. Wouldn't pass me, just kept my pace no matter what I did. I slowed down hoping he'd just keep going but he pulled alongside me and when I finally looked over at him he just…kicked my bike out. They were wearing patches too." I admitted. Then, as their stares remained on me I finally said, "Mayans? Or some name like that."
The VP pivots immediately, walking in the other direction. I watch him throw his hands up on either side of his head, which he is shaking back and forth, confirming my suspicion that them being here is somehow related to my crash. I hear the mohawk guy say "Holy shit.…" and the older guy just stays silent, watching the VP anxiously. All three look infuriated, but the older guy has worry mixed in with his anger.
"Jax. We gotta do something." he finally gets out.
The Vice President—Jax—looks at him, his face mixed with anger and some other emotion I can't put my finger on, something like disgust, and nods in affirmation.
I walk over to assess my bike as they talk in low voices, trying to see if there's any way at all I can ride out of here. Before I'm even over to it the tattooed guy yells over, "It's pretty bad…" I glance back at him and he looks embarrassed again. I feel sorry and give him a smile and shrug. He's right. My bike's not going anywhere. My dreams of simply riding away from this hellish morning in the way that is my specialty, are dashed. I drop my backpack off my shoulders in defeat.
I'm still looking at my bike and don't notice that Jax has left the others until he moves in front of my gaze, arms crossed.
"What's your name, darlin'?" he asks in a soft tone that seems surprisingly suited to him, and though normally a stranger calling me "darlin'" or anything close to it would make me cringe, he says it with an authenticity that makes me barely notice it tacked onto the end of his question. I let it dangle there before I answer.
"Tess." I offer, my eyes still on my bike.
"Tess," he repeats, like he's testing out the sound of it. Like he can derive something from it more than just the syllable that it is. Then with surety, he says my name again, "Tess…We're not going to leave you here." and it sounds a bit like an apology for him even mentioning leaving me before, as if he owes me something for assuming I dumped my bike of my own accord by hitting gravel or maybe just for getting me into this mess at all. Maybe he does owe it to me.
I don't answer. I've already mentally accepted the idea of accepting the help this time. At my lack of protest, Jax turns to the tattooed guy, "Juice! Stay with her. Call Prospect, have him bring the van. Load the bike and get her to the hospital. Bobby, you're with me. I want to catch up to them."
I can see the authority of his patch coming into play. 'Juice' is already on the phone.
"We're not going to catch up to the Mayans, they're long gone," the big guy—Bobby—tries to interject but he shuts up when the VP shoots him a look.
I'm beginning to notice I'm sore as hell and I'm suddenly feeling very hazy. I sit down on my tipped-over bike, trying not to think about getting into a truck with random 1%ers, which seems to be what I just silently agreed was about to happen. Jax walks closer to me, his voice lowered and I see a man who looks incredible guilty and somehow sad.
"We've got an auto shop," he explains, "it's not far. We can fix your bike. Your plates obviously aren't local. You staying around here?" It's clear he's trying to be gentle, and it's making me nervous. It feels too…real, somehow.
Like I always do when nerves hit me, I start unbraiding, then re-braiding the long, dirty-blonde plait that I always push to the right side of my shoulder. It's down to my waist and I stay quiet, waiting the moments it takes to finish the thick braid, then tie it with a piece of sinew, before I give him an answer.
"No, not really." I sigh, "I just got to California. Less than a month ago. I've just been…riding. I stayed at the motor inn outside of Lodi last night." I admit, not willing to give too much more.
"You're alone." he says it like a statement. I can tell he's got me a bit figured out, more than most people usually can with just a few questions—but then, he's probably gone on soul-searching solo rides himself. Still, I know he means it as a question.
I pause again, though not as long as last time. I want to look away but I don't as I answer.
"Yes. I am."
And maybe it's because it's the first time I've had to say it aloud, or because situations like accidents tend to make you more aware of being on your own, but suddenly I feel truly alone for the first time since I left home.
At hearing my words I see him discard the bewilderment of my situation from his expression and turn it into one close to resolve. He sets his jaw and calls out, "Juice!" but as he speaks he doesn't move his eyes from mine for even a second, "Wait for her at the hospital," he says with about the most unwavering surety I've ever heard, "she's going to stay at the clubhouse."