“Hell, I got a bike,” Willy said.
“Bring it. We’re gonna have an area where bikes will be displayed. Also some racing,” Throttle said.
“Just stay away from the biker chicks, right?” Pedro said.
“Only the ones with our MC. There will be a lot of citizen babes who are into bikers. Those sweeties aren’t off limits.” Rags unscrewed the top of a bottle of water then guzzled the liquid down.
“Just don’t piss off any of the Insurgents,” Throttle said.
Rags crushed the bottle and threw it in the back of the truck. “Don’t even look at them. But you already know all that shit.”
Willy and Pedro nodded.
“That goes for any other biker who has a three-piece rocker on his cut. We’re expecting a few one-percenter clubs to show up.” Rags pulled the ignition keys out of his pocket.
Willy laughed. “I’m bringing my wife and kids, so we’re just gonna stick to the main area. Last year’s event was pretty tame.”
Rags nodded. “It’ll be the same this year until the public goes away, then the bikers will have their fun.”
The fall festival that took place in October on Elmer Myer’s ranch had grown over the last five years. Elmer and Banger, the president of the Insurgents MC, had been buddies since high school. Elmer had a passion for Harleys, and over the yearshad amassed an impressive collection. When his six-year-old grandson was diagnosed with cancer eight years ago, it threw Elmer’s whole family for a loop. His heart broke when his son first told him the news with tears rolling down his cheeks. Seeing his son cry tore Elmer in two.
The endless rounds of treatments and long stays at Children’s Hospital in Denver had not only drained his son and daughter-in-law emotionally but financially as well. Elmer’s son joined a support group, and Elmer was surprised to learn that there were several bikers who were going through a similar experience.
Six years later and his grandson was thriving. Elmer helped his son pay the large amount of medical bills, and that was when he got the idea to start a charity to raise money for biker families whose kids were diagnosed with cancer and needed help paying the bills. He approached Banger with the idea and the Insurgents president was all in. Over the years, the fall festival grew to include vendor booths, live music, motorcycle shows, charity rides, and tattoo competitions. It was one of the bigger festivals in the area and brought in a lot of money for the charity. Citizens worked side-by side with the Insurgents MC. For the most part, it was a weekend of family fun until the sun set, then the bikers closed off the area and partied outlaw-style. The sheriff and his deputies were a visible presence while the fairground was open to the public, but when the sun went down, they headed back to town. Over the years, the sheriff and the Insurgents had a tacit understanding and a degree of unspoken cooperation: The MC would refrain from engaging in the sale and distribution of hard drugs and the sheriff’s department would look the other way, basically tolerating the Insurgents’ existence and activities as long as they didn’t break the agreement by dealing in hard drugs. For years the outlawsco-existed with Pinewood Springs law enforcement without too much friction.
“My kids are looking forward to it,” Willy said.
“Bring them around to the bikes and I’ll let them hop on mine to get a feel for it,” Throttle said.
“Same goes for me,” Rags said.
“Andy will love that. Sera’s into the jewelry, like her mom.” Willy laughed.
“Does that go for me? My two boys are always pointing out motorcycles on the streets or parking lots. They’re beginning to recognize some of you guys’ bikes,” Pedro said as he opened the driver’s door to his Silverado.
“Fuck, yeah, dude,” Rags replied.
A wide smile spread across Pedro’s face. “I’ll have to make sure my wife doesn’t see them hanging around the motorcycles. She hates when myAmerican Ridermagazine comes every month. I gotta hide it or we get into an argument.”
Rags laughed. “Hiding a biker mag from your ol’ lady is too funny, dude.” Throttle and Willy joined in the laughter.
Pedro shook his head. “It’s funny to you ’cause you don’t have to hear Silvia go on and on and on. It’s easier to hide the damn thing.”
“That’s why I don’t have an ol’ lady. I like my freedom too much,” Rags said as he swung up into the truck. “Gotta get going. See you tomorrow.”
Throttle ambled over to the pickup. “Are you going to Blue’s Belly on Saturday? A few of the brothers and their old ladies are going to support the local band that’s gonna be playing there.”
“Who’s the band?”
“I dunno. Chas said Addie knows the lead singer.”
“But he didn’t know the name of the band?”
“Nope. I’m sure his old lady told him, but you know how it goes.” Throttle’s lips quirked.
“Yeah, I do. Chicks tell you so much shit, how the hell can we remember it all? What kinda music do they play?”
“Covers—mostly 80s and 90s stuff. Puck, Tank, and Klutch are going.”