Several others nodded.
Everyone looked at Derek.
He stared at Cassie.
Then at Graham.
Finally:
“I’m not babysitting.”
Cassie said:
“I didn’t ask you to.”
Hank laughed.
“That sounds like a yes.”
Derek rolled his eyes.
But he didn’t object.
Cassie thought getting permission would be the hardest part.
She was wrong.
The first ride nearly broke her.
They met at the clubhouse before sunrise on Saturday.
Cassie arrived at 5:43 a.m. because Graham had told her six.
She expected to be early.
Maria was already drinking coffee.
Hank was checking tire pressure.
Derek stood near a row of bikes tightening something on a saddlebag.
Graham looked at Cassie’s clothes.
Jeans.
Boots.
Jacket.
Proper protective gear underneath.
He nodded.
“Good.”
Cassie carried her notebook inside a waterproof pouch strapped securely to her backpack.
Graham pointed toward his Harley.
“You’re with me today.”
Cassie tried not to look relieved.
She had practiced riding independently, but Graham did not believe she was ready for a long club formation.
Neither did she.
They left at 6:17.
Fifteen motorcycles rolled through sleeping streets before climbing toward Highway 9.
At first, Cassie understood why people romanticized motorcycle travel.
Cold air rushed around the helmet.
The sunrise appeared between mountain ridges.
The line of bikes ahead moved almost like one long machine.
Every rider held position.
Every curve produced subtle changes in spacing.
There was discipline in it Cassie had never noticed while watching from the outside.
Then the romantic part ended.
Her hips began hurting.
Then her knees.
Then her lower back.
Wind battered her shoulders.
Holding the same position became exhausting.
Two hours in, Cassie understood why long-distance riders talked about endurance as much as freedom.
They stopped at a mountain rest area after nearly three hours.
Cassie climbed off Graham’s bike.
Her legs almost failed beneath her.
She caught herself against the seat.
Maria appeared with a bottle of water.
“Pretty, isn’t it?”
Cassie nodded toward the mountain view.
“Yeah.”
Maria smiled.
“I meant watching a teenager discover motorcycles are uncomfortable.”
Cassie laughed despite herself.
Maria lit a cigarette.
“First long ride always kicks your ass.”
“I’m okay.”
“Didn’t ask.”
Cassie took the water.
Maria leaned against the railing.
“Your dad tell you why I’m here?”
Cassie shook her head.
“I know your husband was a member.”
“Was.”
Maria exhaled smoke.
“Eddie Alvarez.”
“He joined in seventy-five.”
“Met me the same year.”
“Proposed six weeks later because men were apparently stupid faster back then.”
Cassie smiled.
“Did you say yes?”
“Unfortunately.”
The smile on Maria’s face softened.
“He was a good man.”
“What happened?”
Maria looked toward the highway.
“1978.”
“We were riding this same route.”
“Different section.”
“A drunk driver crossed the median.”
Cassie stopped drinking.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ve had forty-six years to hear that sentence.”
Maria did not say it cruelly.
Just truthfully.
“I showed up to his memorial ride wearing his cut.”
Cassie looked at Maria’s vest.
“His?”
“The first one.”
“I don’t wear it anymore.”
“It’s at home.”
She flicked ash.
“The men didn’t know what to do with me.”