Chapter 2 - The Blue Bicycle on the Shoulder
Behind him, the thunderous roar of eight heavy engines instantly throttled down into a chorus of deep, metallic decrescendos. The formation smoothly closed ranks, tires crunching onto the gravel shoulder as all nine bikes came to a synchronized halt along the burning edge of Route 89.
The bikers idled their machines, kickstands remaining up as they turned their helmeted heads toward their leader, confused by the sudden stop in the middle of nowhere.
"What's the call, Hawk?" shouted Big Mac, a massive fifty-year-old rider directly behind Tate, leaning over his handlebars. "We got a mechanical?"
Tate didn't answer. He clicked his gear lever into neutral, flipped down his kickstand, and swung his long leg over his custom cruiser. He pulled off his dark glasses, letting them hang from his collar, and stepped out into the middle of the empty lane, turning his back to the desert wind.
The rest of the riders watched in silence as Tate stood motionless on the blistering asphalt, staring back up the highway.
Down the long, heat-warped ribbon of road, the tiny blue bicycle was coming into full view. It was a small, seven-speed child’s bike—the kind sold at department stores—paint chipped, its cheap plastic chain guard rattling against the frame with every violent pedal stroke.
The rider on the seat was tiny, almost swallowed by the vastness of the surrounding desert.
As the bicycle got closer, the desperate sound of small rubber tires screaming against hot asphalt and gravel cut through the low rumble of the idling motorcycles. The boy was pedaling with everything he had, his legs moving in a frantic, uncoordinated blur, his body leaning dangerously from side to side as he fought against the fierce crosswinds blowing across the open plain.
"Is that... a kid?" one of the bikers muttered, leaning forward in his saddle, squinting through his visor.
Tate didn't say a word. He stepped three strides forward, standing right near the white line, holding his position like a wall.
The small blue bicycle hit the rough patch of gravel twenty feet away. The front wheel wobbled wildly, losing traction. The boy gasped for air, his tiny hands gripping the plastic handlebar grips so hard his knuckles were stark white. He didn't steer away from the nine heavy motorcycles; he steered straight toward Tate, as if the imposing biker were an anchor in a raging sea.
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Ten feet away, the boy tried to hit the coaster brakes, but his small feet slipped off the pedals. The bike skidded sideways across the gravel, dust rising in a cloud around the tires, heading straight for a violent crash against the hot pavement.
Tate took one swift, long stride forward, reached down with his bare, tattooed hands, and caught the bicycle frame and the boy in one fluid, effortless motion before they hit the ground.
