Yesterday while Bridget and I were cruising back from 6 flags (filming her new Ford Fiesta Movement vid) we were overtaken by an enormous gang of bikers. They came up like thunder with greasy hair flying, one after another. Leather vests and jackets that read “Hells Angels California”.They flow around us like a river of badass around a fluffy magenta island.
Dozens, from the right and left, sunglasses at night, scuffed helmets, glossy hot metal.
I screw my face a tight and clench my jaw, hoping I don’t look like a complete panty waist in front of these legends of American lore. I look like a panty waist trying not to look like a panty waist. Shit, in the face of these coal fired fuckers, what can a panty waist do?
A car edges too close to one and he lifts his leg menacingly in a gesture that says he will kick the car over, flipping it over into the median like a crushed can if it inches any closure. It seems entirely possible.
Behind us there is no end to the bikers. They ride side by side and weaving as a unit around the cars and SUVs.
There is something brave and true and completely enviable about the Angels. We guessed there was a hundred. I wonder where they are going and I hope I’m not there when they arrive.