Cassie had prepared her clothes the night before.
Graham rejected half of them.
“No.”
“What’s wrong with these jeans?”
“They’re thin.”
“They’re denim.”
“They’re fashionable denim.”
“That’s still denim.”
“You need something that survives pavement.”
Cassie stared.
“That is not an encouraging way to begin.”
“Motorcycles are not encouraging.”
He checked her gloves.
Helmet.
Boots.
Jacket.
Then he inspected every strap twice.
Cassie finally asked, “Are we riding or preparing for atmospheric reentry?”
Graham ignored her.
“Rule one.”
“I know. Don’t move around unexpectedly.”
“Rule two.”
“Watch your feet near the pipes.”
“Rule three.”
“When you lean, follow you. Don’t fight the bike.”
“Rule four.”
Cassie sighed.
“If I need you to stop, tap your right shoulder three times.”
“Rule five.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
She smiled.
The Iron Wolves met at sunrise.
Fourteen bikes.
No dramatic parade.
No crowds.
Just engines warming in cold morning air while people checked tires, fuel, straps, and weather.
Derek looked Cassie over.
“Still here.”
“Disappointed?”
“Give it three hours.”
Maria handed Cassie a small bottle of water.
“Drink before you’re thirsty.”
“I brought water.”
“Drink mine anyway.”
Cassie obeyed.
When the motorcycles finally rolled out, romance lasted approximately twenty minutes.
Then reality began.
Wind battered her helmet.
Graham’s bike vibrated continuously beneath her.
The cold morning found every gap in her clothing.
An hour later, her knees hurt.
By the second hour, her lower back felt as though someone had inserted steel rods beside her spine.
By the time they climbed into the mountain roads along Highway 9, Cassie understood why long-distance riders rarely romanticized the physical part of riding.
You paid for every mile.
Wind.
Noise.
Concentration.
Weather.
Fatigue.
The reward was not comfort.
It was presence.
There was no checking messages.
No wandering mentally.
No hiding from the road.
The world came at you continuously.
Forest.
Rock.
Cold.
Sunlight.
The smell of pine.
Then diesel exhaust behind a truck.
Then open valley.
Then curve.
Then another.
By the time they stopped three hours later, Cassie had lost feeling in two fingers.
She climbed off Graham’s Harley and nearly fell because her legs had forgotten their job.
Maria caught her elbow.
“First long one?”
Cassie tried to stand normally.
“I’m fine.”
Maria laughed.
“You walk like you’re ninety.”
Cassie stretched carefully.
“Everything hurts.”
“Good.”
“How is that good?”
“Means you’re learning honestly.”
Maria handed her water.
They stood near the edge of the rest area while the others checked bikes and smoked.
Cassie looked toward Maria’s vest.
“You’ve been riding with them a long time?”
“Since before Derek learned to spell motorcycle.”
Derek, several yards away, raised one finger without turning around.
Maria smiled.
“My husband rode with Iron Wolves.”
Cassie remembered seeing a photograph of Maria beside a man named Luis.
“He died?”
Maria nodded.
“1978.”
Cassie stopped opening her water.
“On a ride?”
“Coming home from one.”
Maria lit a cigarette.
“Drunk driver crossed the median.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Long time ago.”
Maria inhaled.
“Long time doesn’t mean nothing.”
Cassie waited.