NO HARM

By Cool Hand Luke

PART ONE

The sun rose and warmed the cool Colorado morning. He lay awake and listened to the radio weather report. Same as near every June day in Colorado--warm and sunny…until the afternoon thunderstorms rolled in around four o’clock. No matter, for the man would be long gone to the west before the rain ever got to Lakewood.

Dressed, he slung his duffel and closed the door to his room quietly, so as not to awaken his roommate sleeping off a hangover down the hall. He walked to the kitchen where he ran into a bleach blonde chick in a black Harley shirt that barely covered her ass cheeks. His bro was a good looker, for a biker. He regularly brought home drunken bar sluts, and on more than one occasion, he shared. The man didn’t know this one, and didn’t bother to get acquainted. Saying nothing, he sidestepped her, catching a strong whiff of stale beer and cigarettes.

Out the back door of the small rented house, and into the garage he went. He bungeed his duffel to the homemade sissy bar, and wheeled the shiny black FXR into the early sunlight. The cut-off pipes blasted the neighborhood out of their Sunday morning sleep. He wheeled out toward the viaduct, and motored toward the mountains.

Reno was a long way off, and he wanted to dodge the rain if possible. He chose the mountain passes over the long stretch of Wyoming. It was about the same amount of time to Salt Lake. Traveling through the High Country he might get underneath the rain and drop into the desert in Central Utah.

Climbing toward Georgetown the man had to concentrate. It was always this way, riding into the mountains. The thinning clear air seemed to distort things at first, and the SUV’s went careening around the curves, and one never knew when they were gonna drift just far enough into his lane to bump him into the side of the mountain. He still liked his carbureted bike, even though the newer fuel injected models performed better at these differing altitudes. It wasn’t until he crossed the Continental Divide that he finally got a hold of the rhythm of the road, and the sway of the mountain curves. As the rumbling Harley climbed Vail pass, he thought about his destination.

They had come to Colorado, both of them together, from Illinois. Chicago wasn’t the booming opportunity laden city that Denver was. He got quick work as a laborer. He never realized that just speaking English could help him beat out four other guys going for the same job. His woman got a job as a waitress at one of those big chain restaurants. You know the type of place, where the girls have to wear tight, skimpy clothes, and serve hot wings, hamburgers and beers. She filled out the outfits well, but he didn’t really worry, since she came home each night to him and their small apartment.

Things were looking up for them then, he had put enough aside to fix up the old pan/shovel that his uncle had left him, and she was just happy to be anywhere besides Peoria. When she got pregnant, he did what he thought was right. He bought a second-hand ring with some overtime checks. He married her in front of the magistrate, with a couple of bros for witnesses. The Harley was sold to make the down payment on a small brick house in southwest Denver. She couldn’t work at the bar in her condition, and health bennies for construction workers sucked, so his last dollars went to doctor’s visits.

Over the next few years, all was well. He got promoted to mechanic of heavy equipment, earning a nice raise with the new job. Aside from twenty here or there for a little smoke, he saved every penny until he was able to buy a newer bike, this time he bought an FXR. It was newer, but hey it was still a Harley.
After the boy was born, the ol’ lady shed the pounds quickly, and got a gig serving drinks at a local topless joint.

Again, he didn’t worry, cause they had been through too much together to break the trust now. The man and the boy spent a lot of evenings together, tinkering and washing the bike while his wife was at work. It was the best time of his life, just him and the boy hanging together. As the boy graduated from bottles, he would try and take a pull from the longnecks that his dad sipped. His bros would come by to watch the game, or to sit in the garage, and the boy would sit quietly on his father’s lap taking it all in.

The man took the boy on his first ride, and when the boy balked at being on top of the bike, the man vowed to the boy that no harm would come to him. One trip up the block, and the boy squealed and laughed with excitement. From then on it was a ritual, each evening when the man got home, they would ride around the block together, each time, the man promising that nothing bad would happen. How could he have known?

He should have paid closer attention. He should have sensed what was happening. His woman with the red rimmed eyes, her staying late at the club to “help clean up”. By the time he got wise, it was too late. One of the dancers kept telling his wife about all the money to be made in Las Vegas. Denver wasn’t enough, and Nevada was full of glitz and fun. One day the man got home still covered in grease from a Caterpillar he was working on. The only thing she left was a note, saying the usual, “…sorry, didn’t mean to hurt you, blah blah….”

The only thing that got him about it was that she had his boy.

Grand Junction was in his rearview now, and then he was passing the turnoff to Moab. The day was still hot enough, but there were storm clouds over the flattops to the north. He hoped to duck underneath the rain, and if he picked up speed, he could do just that. He had come this way when he first went to Vegas to find her and the boy. He had checked the whole town, top to bottom, and while a few people had seen her, or knew of her, no one knew how to find her. His anger mounted, he threatened, he fought, and even tried to bribe, but he couldn’t find out where she had taken his only son.

For five years he made an annual ride out to the desert always looking. He heard then, that she had no more friends in Vegas and had left town. The trails went cold then. His anger turned to despair. For five more years he had heard nothing, and had even been dating a righteous chick that liked his ways. She really fit in with him and his bros, never seeming to crave more than she had with him. They were talking about her moving in the day he got the certified letter.

Green river meant another gas stop, then again in Price and then again in Salt Lake City.

As he rode west toward the Nevada Border, the sun went down, and the glow of the mines made an eerie glow in the desert sky. The sign at the rest stop warned of scorpions, and his tired eyes imagined dozens of them scuttling across the road and crunching under his tires. Wanting to push on, he decided a little sleep was his best option.

He got a room for cheap at a casino on the border. He parked the bike under the casino overhang, and found his way into the dingy room. When his head hit the pillow, he fell into a fitful sleep. Exhausted as he was, he dreamt all night about scorpions and rattlesnakes.

When he awoke, the room was black except for a sliver of light from the curtains. He rolled over to check his watch, already eight in the morning. This stretch of road would be brutally hot, and he had to get to Reno tonight.

The letter had brought the news. His wife had died in a hotel room of a heart attack. The news didn’t really surprise him, but it was unexpected. She was only in her mid thirties, so he could only imagine how much blow it took to kill her. The county had his son, and had sent the letter, asking if he was interested in having the boy come live with him. The letter explained that they always tried to place children with relatives before foster care.

That, at least was welcome news. The man knew what foster care could be like, and knew how quickly the wounds of abandonment would turn to scars for life. The boy, who would be going on fourteen, now, was too old not to remember forever, being left alone.

He had no plan really. The only thing on his mind was to return to Colorado with the boy. The man didn’t know what the boy would think, didn’t know what the boy liked to eat, if he was good in school, good at sports, or if he liked cars and motorcycles. He didn’t know what his wife had said about him, or how she had explained his not being around.

Maybe the boy would hate him, hate bikers, or hate grown men in general. Only God, the boy, and his dead mother, knew what kind of guys the boy had seen with his mother those past ten years.

He rolled into Reno about four that afternoon. His body was about empty of any moisture, and he felt like his skin was going to flake off him at any moment. He got directions to the address from the county letter, and a short while later he was pulling up in front of the foster home where his son was staying.

The sun was tinting the whole town in orange when he walked toward the front door. A young boy, maybe big for his age, rose from a plastic chair on the porch. The man walked closer. That chin, those high cheekbones. The boy’s mouth opened but no words came out.

Those eyes! Those were his mother’s eyes!

“Don’t sweat it boy, we’ve plenty of time,” he said, hugging the boy. As he held his son then, he vowed to him that no harm would come to him while the man lived.

Three days later, when the papers were signed, and the caseworker was satisfied, they left Reno—a father and son reunited. They returned to Denver by way of Seattle, Missoula, and the Tetons. Again and again, the man vowed to the wind in front of them, that no harm would ever come to his son.

PART TWO

Eight years ago, they met. Eight years ago, William “Hondo” Samson came home with his father.

They had gotten on his dad’s Harley and left Reno, where he had lived with his mother in various hotels for four years of his life before she died, and the subsequent arrival of his father. The motorcycle and it’s rumble was the only distinct memory he had of his pop until the day he showed up to take him back to Colorado. To that point, he had only a vague picture of his father’s face, remembering only a big bearded man.

The trip to Colorado was nice. They traveled the Northern coast nearly to Canada, then wound their way back through the mountains and high desert from there. They didn’t say much on the ride home, and when they did, it was only short bits of conversation. They talked about the temperature on the back of the bike, but not much else. Most communication consisted of a tap on the left knee, and a finger that pointed things out to each other as they rode. Gestures aimed at some spectacle along the road, animals, and long-range views.

After getting to the man’s house in Colorado, they took it slow, still. Hondo wasn’t real sure of what to say, or what to talk about. Hell, for all he knew his dad would get tired of having a kid around after all these years, and send him packin’.

It didn’t take long though, for him to realize that his Pop was different…different, from the men who had been coming around his mom. Those guys were usually nice until after they did the deed with Ma. Then, if he ever saw them again, they just wanted him out of the way.

But the man was very different. Sure he liked bikes, and there were some nudie magazines around (till he caught the boy looking them over one morning, then they all disappeared), but he never acted like the boy was in the way. Never made him leave the room while he and his friends talked, and whenever those friends came over, it was hugs all around. He always wanted Hondo to come out to the garage with him while he puttered around, tinkering with his Harley, or cleaning his tools.

This was when they talked the most. They didn’t sit down, face to face, but somewhere in the midst of, “hand me that 9/16ths”, or “hold this light just so”, they talked about things. They never talked about Hondo’s mom, at least nothing bad was said. When Hondo mentioned her, the man never said anything, just listened.

They still went for rides on warm evenings, sometimes over to the house of his dad’s buddies, but sometimes they just went up into the hills, feeling the cool air on their faces. He liked it then, it was good to be around.

Slowly but surely, the boy began to emulate his dad. He started walking like him, and talking like him. The old man held him under a cold shower the first time Hondo tried to drink beer like him. He thought he heard a chuckle as the old man left him there under the cold water. Only time would tell if Hondo would learn to be like him.

Hondo went to school, his grades were okay, he liked basketball and football, but mostly he liked getting home and tinkering with the lawnmower or his dad’s welder.

When he got out of high school, he bought his first bike, an old 750. He rattle canned it black, just like some of those cool choppers on TV. He got a job roofing through a contractor that his dad had used a couple times, and managed to save away a little money.

At eighteen, Hondo was built like his old man--broad shoulders and long brown hair. As is bound to happen, he picked up some of his dad’s quirks too. At eighteen he decided he liked coffee. At 19 he took his first toke, when pop wasn’t around, of course. At 21 he went in halves with his dad on a used FLH, as he was now a little too big for the 750. It was a little heavy at first, but that 16-inch front wheel dove into the curves like magic.

Dad’s girlfriend had a friend who had a daughter--a sweet little thing with jet-black hair, brown eyes, and one leg shorter than the other. She wore a special shoe so that you couldn’t really notice it. She had been in a car accident when she was still a toddler, and her hip was shattered. They had to cut away the top of the hipbone and build a new hip joint for her. That part never grew along with the rest of her leg.

She would come with her mom when folks would come to the house on a Friday night. Being the same age, they got over being annoyed with each other, and quickly became friends. Hondo nicknamed her “Swan” cause she reminded him of the Indian girl from Jeremiah Johnson. She pretended not to like it, but never told him to stop calling her that. When they all came over, the two of them would go out and sit in the hammock, or lay around in his room listening to music.

After a while of that, they were the only two around that wouldn’t admit what their parents could see. But, at 21, Hondo was sure that the world awaited him out there. He had never been east of the Mississippi, and at 22, with two almost new tires, and a fresh can of flat black paint adorning his gas tanks, he packed the FLH, ready to check it all out.

They all gathered to say their good-byes when he left. His dad, his girlfriend, and Swan. If he could’ve read their minds, he would’ve heard one thing from them all, “let no harm come to him.” When Swan kissed him, he nearly changed his mind and rolled the bike back in the garage.

He headed east of out Colorado toward the Kansas line. In such a hurry to get somewhere other than here, he stayed with the freeway all day long. The heat was intense, and he relished the rolling clouds that brought thunderstorms near dusk. He had to get under a bridge when the wind nearly blew him off the road, then the rain blinded him. He stayed under the bridge until most of the rain had moved on, and then followed the storm east.

A cheap motel in Topeka was his bed for the night, and the next day he landed in Missouri. The humidity was stifling, but his bike seemed to perk up at this altitude. He was making good time; the bike was running like a top! He blew the doors off the cars for the first half of the day, then just east of Columbia, the red and blue lights killed the Zen-like feeling he’d enjoyed since finding his way to the open road.

“License and registration sir,” said the cop, who couldn’t have been any older than Hondo himself. He handed over the papers; glad he had renewed his insurance before leaving. “Where ya going in such a hurry?” queried the uniformed interloper.

Hondo just kept quiet. If he could keep from engaging too much, he might be able to get back the feeling he was having before this guy showed up.
“I’ll be right back,” said the cop.

Whatever.

After about fifteen minutes, another squad car pulled up.

“Here we go,” Hondo thought. The .38 in his bedroll wasn’t gonna go over too well. The cop came back up to the bike with his papers, but no ticket.
“You do all the work to this yourself?” he asked Hondo. “What, is that a custom fender on the back? And that’s a suicide set-up right?”

“Hey, maybe this guy ain’t gonna bust my balls,” thought Hondo. “Yeah, my dad helped me make the fender, and I know a guy in Denver that makes the foot clutch rig for these newer bikes. Has a pretty cool machine shop in town.”

“Neat,” said the cop, “Hey, you do any work to the frame, get a new transmission or anything?”

No, the frame and tranny were still pretty much stock.

“Well hey, how about you come back here with me to the car, for a minute”. It wasn’t really a question.

The hair went up on the back of Hondo’s neck.

He sat in the front seat, and while the cop talked to him, he watched the other cop walk circles around his bike, looking closely at it. So long as he didn’t open the bedroll….

“We’ve been checking bikes that come through for factory numbers ya see,” explained the cop. “Your numbers are matching aren’t they?”

At that moment, Hondo was glad he hadn’t bought those cases and heads from his dad’s buddy.

“Yeah, they all match.”

He was still watching the cop by his bike, which had noticed the tire knocker that was slipped under some bungee cords. The other cop came back by the car and leaned in. “How’s come the big stick buddy?”

"I aint yer buddy," thought Hondo.

“For checking my tires officer”, then to the next question: “Nope, no weapons on me at all, travelin’ light these days.”

The cop in the car with him was on the radio, and then turned to Hondo, “well, our unit that specializes in checking these numbers is tied up with another call. I expect things are okay, you slow down now all right?”

As Hondo walked back toward the bike, the second cop eyed the buck knife on Hondo’s hip, but said nothing.

Ten miles down the road, Hondo cut loose a scream at the road. He was still muttering fifty miles later when he stopped for gas.

Although he took it pretty slow through the rest of Missouri, he still made good time getting to the other side, and when he passed the gateway arch, into Illinois, he was starting to feel better. He ate a big meal at a cheap diner, and rode on into the night. He saw plenty more coppers in the land of Lincoln, and more in Indiana, but none bothered him.

Hondo’s dad had a pal who lived in Central Ohio, where Hondo had been promised a place to crash for a few days. His dad’s friend, Scooby, was a concrete block maker, who played hard. Hondo ate well there; Scooby’s ol’ lady was a fine cook.

They talked a lot about back home. Scooby still missed it, and knew all the same folks that Hondo knew. “How’s about that little girl that used to come around your place with her ma?” asked Scooby one night.

Hondo thought a lot about Swan, but hey, that’s the life of a biker, right?

“She’s okay,” he said, turning the other way so Scooby wouldn’t see the longing in his eyes, but Scooby didn’t miss much.

“You say yer headed to the Appalachians?” Scooby said. “I might just ride along for a few days. I’m fond of the Parkway that stretches south to north along those mountains. I’ll be yer bonafide tour guide!”

Hondo went to bed that night thinking of Swan, and Scooby made a phone call that he didn’t mention to the younger man.

Two days later, they headed out, southeast--toward West Virginia. Hondo liked the small town charm of the area, wishing Swan could see it too. They curved and wound their way into the old mountains, and once a coal truck nearly pushed them into the side of the hill. When they stopped for gas next, Old Scooby looked at Hondo admiringly.

“At yer age, I never could’ve pulled her back out of the soft stuff on the shoulder the way you did,” he said. “It’s good riding for sure, but don’t let it get you overconfident. Many’s the boy with a natural feel for two wheels, forgets to be cautious.”

They rode on more slowly after that. At Blueville, they turned south on the Blue Ridge Parkway. 45 miles an hour was just right for taking in the scenery. No motor homes, no semis, just easy ridin’.

They camped one night long the parkway. Listening to the crickets grind away on their legs, they had a couple of beers. Scooby, with a twinkle in his eye said, “Once we git into Asheville, I gotta make a stop off by myself.”

Hondo didn’t ask why, it was none of his business.

They pulled into Asheville the next day, and Hondo waited at the local Harley shop while Scooby went off on his errand. Three hours later, when Hondo had long since tired of looking at the new bikes, he heard the now familiar sound of Scooby’s bike pulling into the lot outside.

He stepped out, and as he looked, he tripped over a parking block and fell flat on his face! He looked up, and sure enough, it was Swan! “How did...what the...”

The look of confusion mixed with obvious pleasure made Scooby laugh.

“She flew out to meet up with ya, ya big lummox!” Scooby was doubled over laughing loudly, people were watching the show.

Swan walked toward him tentatively. “Scooby and your dad, pooled bought me a ticket to come finish your ride with you. I hope that’s okay with you. I wasn’t sure, but Scooby insisted. Your dad thought you’d be okay with it.”

“Well, yeah, but…I mean, sure, but I don’t have a back seat” Hondo stammered.

“No sweat!” Scooby broke in. “I packed along this little seat so she’d have a place to sit.”

“How’s this little thing supposed to work?” Hondo asked.

“Lick 'em an’ Stick 'em boy, that’s all there is to it,” Scooby laughed as he demonstrated…with a little exaggeration.

Swan was laughing, Scooby was laughing, and then Hondo got hold of himself, and even cracked a laugh too.

They rode into Cherokee, North Carolina, the three of them on two bikes. Swan held tightly to Hondo in the curves, both of them admiring the beauty of the ancient hills and old growth trees. They shopped at some tourist traps, Hondo picked up a bone handled knife, and Swan got a little silver ring.

Hondo couldn’t help but notice that she wore it on her left ring finger.

Scooby gave him a playful stern look. “Ya know boy, yer ‘posed to give her that ring, not make her buy it herself”.

Hondo didn’t know what to say, so he stomped off.

The next day, they rode north, through a thickly forested country, where the road made a loop back on itself. Swan closed her eyes as they went round the curves, but in the mirror, Hondo could see that she was smiling, too. They went north through Kentucky, then Scooby broke off and headed back toward Columbus. He winked at Hondo as he hugged Swan, and waved as he took the next turn.

As Scooby watched Hondo and Swan get smaller in the distance, he asked the wind, “Please, let no harm come to them.”

A day later, Hondo and Swan rode into Michigan. A buddy of his from school had moved out there to work as a bricklayer with his uncle, somewhere to the North along Lake Huron. He had promised Hondo some work on some side jobs around there. The city folks were buying northern property like crazy, and it all needed building. The woods were thick with green, and they camped out on the shoreline under the stars. It got chilly along the lake, and they huddled close together, neither feeling real cold….

When they finally got to his friend’s place, they relaxed for a day, then Hondo went to work. In one week, they poured two driveways, two rat-wall foundations, and bricked in a nine-foot deep basement. His pal made Hondo the deal of a lifetime in exchange for the fast work.

Hondo tried to object. “Hey bro, this is way too much money, I’m just glad for the work and a little dough!”

“Keep it man, and enjoy the rest of yer ride, it’ll help”, insisted his friend. When Hondo and Swan rode away two weeks after arriving, they were feeling pretty confident.

Thick as the mosquitoes were, and as much money as they had to spare now, they got a little hotel room in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. They relaxed a little, smoked a little of what Hondo’s pal had given them as a traveling favor, and slept in the next day. They rode on, barely missing a fat deer that ran in front of them out of the thick underbrush. They ate a picnic lunch on that western tip of Lake Superior, and headed on west.

When they got to a town called Crookston, aptly named, as they would soon find out, they got a hotel room in town. They arrived early in the evening, and after showering off the bugs that had caked on their faces and in their hair, they cruised the main street, coming to a stop in front of a tavern in one of those little shopping centers. They went in, and while Swan visited the restroom, Hondo ordered them a pitcher. They sat at the bar at first, then went to a booth where they could stretch out their legs a bit.

Hondo noticed the guys still at the bar. They were all wearing green ball caps and steel toed boots. No mind, there were hicks in every state. They stared hard at Swan though, and soon enough, the waitress brought over a fresh pitcher.

“We didn’t order that”, Hondo let her know.

“S’okay hun, it’s from the fellas up at the bar.”

Again, the hair stood up on the back of Hondo’s neck. They were up there, leering at Swan, confident in the fact that there were four of them and one of him. Feeling his anger rise, Hondo started to stand, but Swan grabbed his arm. “Let’s just go,” she said.

He looked at her then for a long moment, then nodded his agreement. They grabbed their jackets and headed for the door. They were almost there; back out into the dusk, where the setting sun would’ve kept the wolves at bay. They were almost past the hicks and to the door when he heard Swan startle behind him. He whirled in time to see a hand retreating from Swan’s backside. As he stepped toward the offender, a foot came out from beneath the stool, tripping him and he landed on his face.

He remembered the boots catching him in the ribs, he remembered, the fists pummeling him as he tried first to rise, then to cover up. He saw then, out of the corner of his rapidly swelling eye, Swan land on the floor. Her specially made shoe came off, then, as she tried to stand, cruel hands pushed her again.

“Look, the wittle cwipple chick can’t walk widdout her speshul shoooz!” one of them teased.

Hondo saw them through reddened eyes. He lunged at the knees of the hick closest to him hearing a sickening crack as he made contact. Something hit him in the back but he was too far gone now. On the way to his feet, he snatched up a bar stool with his right hand, and using his left to hold on to the bar for leverage, he swung the stool wildly. Down went the second with blood spraying from his face. He dove onto the third, beating him with angry fists while the fourth ran out the door.

There were sirens in the distance. Swan grabbed him by the torso, tugging him toward the door. It seemed funny somehow, Swan, with her orthopedic shoe in one hand, circling his thick chest with the other, trying to pull him back. But it got through to him, and they went for the door, three figures sprawled on the floor behind them. No one else in the bar made a move to stop them, they just stared in disbelief as Hondo and Swan headed for the parking lot.

They were back to the hotel and packed in eight minutes. Ten miles down the road they stopped at a roadside park where Swan looked him over. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the pain of what must have been a cracked rib or two was setting in. Hondo’s head throbbed, and it hurt to breathe. There was a nasty gash on his temple. He was lucky the blow that made it hadn’t knocked him out during the fray.

Swan cleaned up the blood as best she could, but the ribs would have to mend another day. Right now, they needed to get out of the county, even better, out of the state. You didn’t leave three guys bleeding on the barroom floor, maybe dead, without someone looking for you.

They got back on the bike just in time to see two county mounties streak past with the lights and sirens going crazy.

The new fugitives doubled back, looking for a road south. They could see a long ways over those beet fields, and more red and blue lights were coming their way, lighting up the night. Hondo pulled off behind some farm machinery until they passed, then the pair found their road South. His head was pounding, and his breathing was raspy. He coughed a couple times, but there was no blood, so he was sure he’d be okay. They stayed on the road as long as he dared, then found a county road to another westbound road, and kept the bike at the speed limit.

They were well out of the county now, and not long from being out of the state. He kept the bike pointed west for a while. They pulled in to camp for the night in a tree line with fields on both sides of them. He figured to be able to see anything coming. She set the tent up, while he put some branches in front of the bike so it wouldn’t reflect off any headlights in the distance.
They had no fire that night, and they held each other close, sleeping in short, fitful spells.

Before the sun was up, they were back on the road, and crossing North Dakota. The country was low rolling hills, which at any other time would’ve been lovely. They crossed the badlands, and kept heading west into Montana. If anyone had seen his plates, they’d be looking for him to head south for Colorado.

He got back North onto US-2 and called his old man from a small town along the way. They looped around the long way, through Montana, Idaho, Utah, and came into Colorado from the west.

Hondo was reminded of that first ride with his dad, as they covered some of the same country. He and Swan camped out along the way, taking in the beauty around them, and forming an unbreakable bond born of the experiences of the trip. By the time they got back to Colorado, it seemed strange to Hondo that she hadn’t been with him the whole trip. She clung daintily to his waist, being careful of his ribs. Her black hair streamed behind them like a kite tail.

There were no more troubles with the cops, as though all dues had been paid. Hondo and Swan hadn’t been the only ones paying though. The bike was rattling itself apart. Hondo’s roadside repairs were keeping it together, but just barely.

Hondo’s dad met them in Rifle, and rode back to the Front Range alongside the young couple. Watching his son ride, the man admired the way his boy leaned that big bike through the mountain passes. He sighed to himself as the mountain air collided with his face. All things considered, things had turned out pretty well. His son, the boy he’d raced to Reno for, had passed the test of the road. The man thanked the wind and road that no harm had come to his son.

Just under a year later, Hondo stood in the living room of his father’s house, holding a newborn boy.

“Thomas, I think, is a good name,” Hondo said to the gathered friends, but to no one in particular.

Swan smiled as the proud papa handed the child to his grandfather. He would grow up in the company of these men…that thought pleased Swan.

As she passed her baby boy around to be held and met and loved by the assembled friends, Hondo and his dad wandered outside for a moment. Both men prayed silently to the wind and the road, “Let no harm come to him.”

-THE END-