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Authors: Sophia Hampton
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my voice as cold as an arctic wind.
“Yep!” Shane says cheerfully. “Motorcycles aren’t for women.”
I feel myself go hot with rage. “You mother-fucker. I’ll have you know I own one of the most respected antique Harley-Davidson restoration businesses in the country. I know more about motorcycles than you ever will.”
“Yeah, but that’s working on them. I’m talking about riding them. You have to have balls to ride a bike. I think you know where that leaves you.”
He is so smug about it I want to kill him. “Fuck you, Shane!”
“I don’t know what you are so mad about. Your own father didn’t want you to join. I’m just carrying on the family tradition.”
“That’s different!” I shout.
“Is it now? How?”
I splutter in impotent rage for a moment. Shane’s right. It isn’t different; but now that Daddy is dead, I am finally going to get what I have been wanting for as long as I can remember. A 417 club jacket.
Daddy formed the club in 1974 and served as its president for nearly twenty years. The club is named after Highway 417. It’s the highway that leads into Moore, South Carolina, where the club is based. The 417s are an “in-law” bike club. In other words, we are all just normal people, with normal jobs, living normal lives. I never understood why women were not welcome in the club when Daddy was president, but they weren’t. Daddy was kind of old school that way. He always explained it away by saying, “Motorcycles are not lady like.” I still don’t know what the hell that means. It has taken years of persistence and effort to finally break down that barrier.
“You can’t do this!” I shout in a rage.
“Already done,” Shane says with a grin. “Now, why don’t you run along, so we can get down to business.”
I stand there, mouth agape, unable to believe what is happening or, more accurately, what has happened.
***
I wake up the next morning, rumpled and hung-over. So fucking close! Only to have Shane snatch it.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I scream in a panic. Shane is standing at the foot of my bed, watching me.
“Seems you have made a good impression on the boys in the club.”
“Get out! Get out before I call the cops!” I shout pulling the linens up to cover my nakedness. How the fuck did he get in here? And why is he naked?
Shane grins at me. “Now, Maggie, what are you so upset about? It’s not like I haven’t seen it all before.”
“Shane! Get out!”
“Okay. If that is what you want. I thought you would want to hear what I came say.”
“What?” I ask, suddenly interested.
“Well, it seems the rest of the crew has changed my mind about you joining the club.”
“Really?” I ask, suddenly excited again.
“Really. But…”
“But what?” I ask warily.
“But...you are going to have to prove you are worthy of joining.”
“Worthy? I told you, I own and operate a motorcycle restoration business. I work on or have restored half the bikes in the club. How much more worthy do you have to be than that?” I demand.
“That’s not enough. You have to prove you can ride.”
“Prove it to who? You?”
“That’s right.”
“And how would I do that?”
“It’s simple. We race. You and me. From the Pioneer to a little trailer I have in the woods. I’ll show you on a map. If you can beat me there, you’re in. If not…”
“How far is it from the Pioneer?”
“Not far. About twenty miles, but part of it is dirt track.”
“So, if I beat you from the Pioneer to your trailer and I’m in. Simple as that?”
“That’s it. And bring an owl.”
“An owl?” I ask in confusion.
“Yes. An owl. You know, hoot, hoot ,” Shane says, hooting like an owl. “You can get one at the pet store.”
***
I arrive at the Pioneer, the restaurant where we hold
“Yep!” Shane says cheerfully. “Motorcycles aren’t for women.”
I feel myself go hot with rage. “You mother-fucker. I’ll have you know I own one of the most respected antique Harley-Davidson restoration businesses in the country. I know more about motorcycles than you ever will.”
“Yeah, but that’s working on them. I’m talking about riding them. You have to have balls to ride a bike. I think you know where that leaves you.”
He is so smug about it I want to kill him. “Fuck you, Shane!”
“I don’t know what you are so mad about. Your own father didn’t want you to join. I’m just carrying on the family tradition.”
“That’s different!” I shout.
“Is it now? How?”
I splutter in impotent rage for a moment. Shane’s right. It isn’t different; but now that Daddy is dead, I am finally going to get what I have been wanting for as long as I can remember. A 417 club jacket.
Daddy formed the club in 1974 and served as its president for nearly twenty years. The club is named after Highway 417. It’s the highway that leads into Moore, South Carolina, where the club is based. The 417s are an “in-law” bike club. In other words, we are all just normal people, with normal jobs, living normal lives. I never understood why women were not welcome in the club when Daddy was president, but they weren’t. Daddy was kind of old school that way. He always explained it away by saying, “Motorcycles are not lady like.” I still don’t know what the hell that means. It has taken years of persistence and effort to finally break down that barrier.
“You can’t do this!” I shout in a rage.
“Already done,” Shane says with a grin. “Now, why don’t you run along, so we can get down to business.”
I stand there, mouth agape, unable to believe what is happening or, more accurately, what has happened.
***
I wake up the next morning, rumpled and hung-over. So fucking close! Only to have Shane snatch it.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I scream in a panic. Shane is standing at the foot of my bed, watching me.
“Seems you have made a good impression on the boys in the club.”
“Get out! Get out before I call the cops!” I shout pulling the linens up to cover my nakedness. How the fuck did he get in here? And why is he naked?
Shane grins at me. “Now, Maggie, what are you so upset about? It’s not like I haven’t seen it all before.”
“Shane! Get out!”
“Okay. If that is what you want. I thought you would want to hear what I came say.”
“What?” I ask, suddenly interested.
“Well, it seems the rest of the crew has changed my mind about you joining the club.”
“Really?” I ask, suddenly excited again.
“Really. But…”
“But what?” I ask warily.
“But...you are going to have to prove you are worthy of joining.”
“Worthy? I told you, I own and operate a motorcycle restoration business. I work on or have restored half the bikes in the club. How much more worthy do you have to be than that?” I demand.
“That’s not enough. You have to prove you can ride.”
“Prove it to who? You?”
“That’s right.”
“And how would I do that?”
“It’s simple. We race. You and me. From the Pioneer to a little trailer I have in the woods. I’ll show you on a map. If you can beat me there, you’re in. If not…”
“How far is it from the Pioneer?”
“Not far. About twenty miles, but part of it is dirt track.”
“So, if I beat you from the Pioneer to your trailer and I’m in. Simple as that?”
“That’s it. And bring an owl.”
“An owl?” I ask in confusion.
“Yes. An owl. You know, hoot, hoot ,” Shane says, hooting like an owl. “You can get one at the pet store.”
***
I arrive at the Pioneer, the restaurant where we hold
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