Page 30 of Money Shot

VINCE

November 6th,2014

Our meeting ended, and a mandatory ride supporting Toys For Tots had been discussed at length. With Christmas fast approaching, the weather was less than favorable to ride, but as long as there wasn’t snow on the ground, we continued, regardless of the temperature. With all of the club’s heavies gathered on the side of the shop, I sauntered toward my bike as I pulled my stocking cap over my head.

“Vince,” Otis said with a nod as I walked past.

I raised my right hand slightly and nodded my head. “Fellas.”

“Headed to Toad’s barbeque joint for a few beers and some chow if you’re interested,” Axton said.

“Appreciate it. I think I’ll just…”

“Excuses are like fuckin’ assholes,” Biscuit said. “Everybody’s got one.”

I turned to face the group. Toad, Axton, Otis, Hollywood, and Biscuit were a club within the club, and for the most part, were a closer knit group than the club was as a whole. They really didn’t let the other fellas in their little group, other than to meet for a drink or take a short unscheduled ride out of town for a show of presence.

“I need to…”

“Need to loosen up, Brother,” Biscuit said. “Tell you the truth, you ought to knock you off some pussy. Been walkin’ around this motherfucker for the last year like a motherfuckin’ zombie. Come on, I got a story to tell that’ll make your toes curl.”

I glanced at my watch out of habit. Still stuck at three o’clock, it wasn’t much help. Hell, I didn’t have anything else to do, and I did need to eat something.

“Sounds good,” I said.

“Saddle up,” Axton said as he tossed his head toward his bike.

“Last one out lock up,” Axton said over his shoulder as he fired up his sled.

The thought of being part of their group for a short period of time was satisfying, but doing so on a long term basis wasn’t something I could ever do. It was far too easy to get caught up in patterns, routines, and eventually develop expectations of the men as friends, and eventually someone would fuck up and I knew enough about myself to know I would lose faith not only in the men, but in the club as a whole. Not exposing myself to the members as individuals protected me from being disappointed in their actions or broken promises, which, over time, were bound to happen.

The six of us rode the half mile to Toad’s barbeque joint, and carefully parked our bikes in front of the building side-by-side. After confirming my bike was perfectly parked beside Otis’, I turned toward the entrance and shoved my keys into my pocket.

“Hardcore motherfucker, ridin’ that Shovel. You work on that pig all the time or what?” Biscuit asked as we walked toward the door.

“Quite a bit, yeah,” I responded. “But it was my Pop’s bike, and…”

“Yeah, I heard that. Cool as fuck you kept it and all,” he said.

“Shovel’s are powerless,” Otis said as we walked inside.

I shook my head in disagreement. Harley replaced the Panhead motor with the Shovelhead in 1966, and in 1971 a world record was set by a man on a Shovelhead powered Harley. The bike was the first in the world to travel the quarter mile in less than nine seconds in a drag race. Propelling two wheels from zero to one hundred and sixty-eight miles an hour in less than nine seconds, and doing so in 1971, was a tremendous accomplishment.

“The first nine second bike in the quarter mile was a Shovel,” I said.

“Bullshit,” Otis snapped back.

“God damned truth,” Axton interrupted. “Man’s name was Joe Smith. Out in San Diego, I think.”

“Los Angeles. West Covina to be exact,” I said.

Biscuit coughed a laugh as we walked up to a table large enough to seat us. “Fuckin’ bookworm.”

“But the man’s got his facts straight. A god damned Shovel is bulletproof,” Axton said.

I nodded my head in his direction as we sat down, appreciative of his support of my bike in the presence of the other men. Each of them rode an almost brand new Harley, and with the exception of Axton’s bike, they were all pretty much unaltered and had very little personality.

My bike was a hodgepodge of parts, and looked the part of an old school hard-core biker’s bike. With faded black paint and very little chrome, it was loud enough to wake the dead. It had the same straight pipe exhaust my father rode it with, and the ape hanger handlebars were the only modification I made to it since obtaining it from my father. Older bikers gathered around it at every rally and poker run I attended. The younger bikers simply walked past it, most not even knowing what it was or what it was capable of.