It’s slightly long on top and buzzed on the sides. From the back, his hair is the first thing I notice. I keep my head straight until the last guy, the one who is at the front of the group, catches my attention. I begin to speed up and pass them one by one, thankful for the security of my helmet, the black visor making it impossible to see me. The talons of the bird are carrying a long stem rose, with petals falling off it onto their club name, The Broken Eagles. I take the men in, noticing they are all well-built, their leather cuts displaying a large eagle, with its wings spread wide like it’s midflight. Even my helmet is all black, with leather piping.
None of the men are wearing helmets, which is the complete opposite of me, who is covered from head to toe in black leather. The group of about five bikes in front of me are all Harleys, all ranging in colors from almost purple to black. The closer I get, the more details I can make out. I slow down as I close the distance between us.
Tennessee has a huge MC community, and there are always new clubs popping up all over the state. I don’t recognize their patches, but that doesn’t surprise me. I sit up when I see a few bikes in the distance. I tuck the upper part of my body behind the windshield where there is less wind resistance and yell out, “Wahooo!” when the feeling of flying hits my stomach. I turn onto the highway and pull back on the throttle, watching as the speedometer reaches sixty.
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