Page 99 of Thick

I seriously doubted I’d beat his hopped-up Shovel, but racing him would put a smile on his face, I knew that much.

After we agreed that neither had the benefit, Crip parked his bike in the center of the street, and walked to the center lane between us.

“You fuckers ready?” he asked.

We revved our engines in response.

He raised his arms.

While I waited for him to drop them, Stretch released his clutch and shot off like a rocket. In a matter of seconds, he disappeared over the hill. The sound of his exhaust faded into the distance, until we heard nothing.

Shocked, we all sat on our bikes, and waited for him to return, but he didn’t. After half an hour, we decided to call it a night, and ride home.

We were damned near to the Del Mar fairgrounds exit on the 5 when we hit the traffic. I knew in my gut that something was wrong, and Crip must have, too.

He signaled to split traffic.

We rode between the cars that were at a standstill on the highway until we saw the flashing lights. Two ambulances were parked in the center of the freeway, half a mile ahead.

Crip lowered his left hand and gave the signal to stop.

Reluctantly, we complied.

We didn’t find out what happened for another hour. After the coroner pulled away, we watched as they loaded the carcass of his bike onto a flat-bed truck.

Considering the fact that he’d ridden almost thirty miles without turning around, and that he was one of the best riders I’d ever met, I assumed he committed suicide. The look in Crip’s eyes told me he believed the same thing. Without saying a word, the two of us decided to take Stretch’s secret to our graves.

As many times as he’d driven us out of harm’s way, we owed him much more. But that was all that was left to give.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Bobbi

Police funerals had always fascinated me. When an officer died in the line of duty, fellow officers came from other municipalities, jurisdictions, counties, and even states to pay respect to their fallen brother.

When a 1%er dies on his bike, the same thing happens.

It was the first time I’d been to a biker funeral. I stood at the top of the hill, twenty feet from the gravesite, and stared, awestruck by what I saw. Motorcycles lined every street in the cemetery. As far as I could see, chrome glistened, littering the grassy hillsides with man-made stars.

Men stood with their hand behind their backs, some dressed in kuttes, some in in leather jackets, and some wearing nothing more nothing more than a tee shirt and jeans.

Colors from a dozen different SoCal clubs merged with the lone riders, mom and pop clubs, and riding clubs. Officers from national clubs stood amongst men they might have considered lesser beings, but on that day, everyone was equal.

The mood was somber as the preacher gave the eulogy. Contrary to what I expected, no one from the club spoke. It might have been that they’d already grieved, or that they mourned differently than most other men.

After the service ended, the men mingled, exchanged niceties, and gave their opinions of how Stretch was forced into the back of the semi-truck he hit by someone driving a cage.

Tate didn’t speak much during the service, or on the way to the shop, but once we got there, things changed.

The men didn’t mingle and eat finger foods, mope around, or wear their somber faces. They threw a celebration. A party to remember the good times, the tough times, and the times they swore they’d never mention again.

I didn’t keep to myself, nor was I overly outgoing. I spoke when I was spoken to, and tried my best to be respectful to all who were at the clubhouse, hoping they could find a way to accept the death of their fallen brother without too much pain.

I recalled the death of my mother, and how she passed without much warning. There are no assurances when someone dies of cancer, and my mother stood as proof. After being diagnosed with lung cancer, she was given six months to live. A week later, she wasn’t with us any longer.

Trying to figure out such things is impossible.

Accepting them isn’t.