Angels Ride Harleys — Michelle McAfee

How Bikers Came To The Rescue

Photo by Julián Nielfa Gracia on Unsplash

The warm, low-angle light of the setting sun blasted through the windshield, blew through my sunglasses, and pummeled my squinting eyes. I glanced down for a reprieve from the glare and noticed the red needle on the gas gauge kissing E.

My butt was numb from sitting in the driver’s seat. I guess Marilyn’s was too because she turned to me from the passenger side and said, “I have to pee. Can we get off at the next exit?” I-5 through California is not the scenic route, but at least we were north of the stench in Coalinga, and the worst was behind us. I pulled up just shy of the gas pump awning.

Rolling to a stop behind a Honda Civic filling up, I shifted into Park. I let the truck run, waiting for the car to finish and pull forward. Twisting my torso around, I fumbled in the back seat for my wallet. No luck. I, too, had to pee — fiercely. I turned fully around in the driver’s seat, facing backward, and dove head-first into the mess of gear, food, and guitars piled in the back. Nothing. No wallet.

I got out, walked around to the rear passenger door, gently opened it, and caught miscellaneous shoes and a tumbling water bottle before they hit the pavement. Rooting around in every crevasse got me nowhere. Dang!

Marilyn said something over her shoulder as she nearly ran to the glass doors of the convenience store, but I didn’t hear her. I was fixated, trying really hard not to panic. I wouldn’t have left my wallet at the venue last night, right? I double-checked the stage after our acoustic duo show. I’m sure we got everything.

The door slammed behind me. I was going to wet my pants if I didn’t run for the glass doors. I followed Marilyn into the store where a few truckers waited for a shower to open up, and a family with three kids stood in line holding huge cups of pop and handfuls of candy bars and potato chips.

My hand pushed the large wood door marked, Women’s, nearly bowling Marilyn over who was on her way out, “Did you get gas yet?”

“No, I can’t find my wallet, and I was about to wet my pants.”

“I’ll fill it; we can sort it out later.” I was already in the stall before she finished the sentence.

Feeling a bit lighter and calmer, I walked out of the store and headed towards our “tour bus” — a white ’97 4-Runner. I noticed Harley-Davidson bikers parked behind and to the side of us. One of the riders had his head down in a saddlebag, looking for something, and I silently wished him better luck than I had.

Marilyn was standing next to the 4-Runner parked right where I left it. The car in front of us was gone. She was leaning against the passenger door.

“Hey, did you fill it already?” I threw her a confused look since the truck wasn’t parked close enough to the pump for the nozzle to reach it, and it was running.

“Uh, no, I didn’t. I can’t get in the truck. You took the keys with you.” I jabbed my hand into my jeans pocket, already knowing they weren’t there. I abruptly stopped in my tracks. Marilyn looked at me as the blood drained from my face, “Please tell me you didn’t do that?”

I felt like a jerk.

“Yes, I think I did do that. I was looking for my wallet and left the truck running. Somehow I must have bumped the electric locks.”

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My friend and music partner is a calm grounded human being.

For instance, we got caught driving late one night in Wyoming on some of the worst black ice I have ever experienced. I was driving that time too, and got us off the Sinclair Exit, parked in front of a greasy spoon truck stop. We went inside and sat at a table sipping coffee, listening to the truckers talking. We were the only two women for a hundred miles, except for the leathery, surly waitress who barked like a dog at those guys, “Hey, Joe, shut the hell up! Your cakes are coming. Get off my back.”

Marilyn asked a trucker who walked through the door, “Hey, which direction did you come from?”

Without even glancing her way, he muttered, “East. You don’t want to go there.” He plopped down, exhausted, three booths away, and placed his hands on top of the table to keep them from shaking. The waitress walked up to him, slid him a white cup of jet-black coffee, “That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” was all he said.

Marilyn sat across from me watching the snow erratically blow every-which-way outside the window. Her finger pointed at a metal trash can skating across the parking lot on the ice, blown by the wind. She looked my way, “So, what do you think?”

“I don’t know. If we stop here, we may end up sleeping in the truck. It’s really cold out there. The roads could be worse tomorrow and make us late for the gig tomorrow night.”

She looked back out the window, “I think we should stay.”

I wasn’t so sure. What if it snowed three feet tonight?

“Hmmm. I don’t know. I need to run out to the truck; I’ll be right back.”

I ran outside, cold air blasting my face, and rifled through my bag. I found my traveling Tarot card deck, and sat in the front seat, shuffling. Marilyn opened the door and jumped in, “Jesus, it’s cold out there! What are you doing?”

“I want to pull a card or two and see if we should stay or go.” I was serious.

“You are crazy. Full on. Completely out of your mind. Put the cards down. We are going to find a motel. I refuse to ride in a car on this ice. I’m not going anywhere. Divine that.”

Marilyn was always the sensible one.

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I warily cast my eyes around the gas station running a list of solutions in my head.

Call AAA. Nope, phones in the car. Try all doors. Locked. Break a window. Bad idea. Marilyn, inhaling deeply, walked over to me, “Hey, what about asking one of those guys for help?”

She pointed at the gray-bearded man who dug through his motorcycle saddlebag.

“The bikers?”

Marilyn quickly shot back, “Yeah, unless you have a better idea.”

She didn’t wait for my answer. She walked over and asked if, by chance, any of them knew how to break into a car. The younger, dark-haired guy lifted his eyes towards us. He didn’t move a muscle and kept filling the tank of his Harley with gas. The bearded man shot a look at his buddies — four of them — then glanced back at Marilyn, “Yeah, we might be able to help with that.”

I was nervous about a small gang of bikers breaking into my truck. We didn’t know anyone around here. I’m used to traveling solo, and when you’re a woman on the road alone, you’re very careful who you ask for help. But this seemed like the best option at the moment. Believe it or not.

One of the bikers happened to have a Slim Jim in his bag.

He walked towards the truck with his bearded buddy. Internally, I was freaking out. What if someone calls the police? What if one of these guys hops in and steals my truck? It never occurred to me that any one of their polished, chromed-out Harley-Davidson bikes cost way more than my old 4-Runner.

It happened so fast. Just a little jiggle, then I heard the lock go “Pop.” The gentleman opened the door for Marilyn, who promptly got in, put the thing in drive and parked it next to the gas pump. She turned off the engine as it sputtered its last gasp.

Elated to have my truck unlocked, I smiled at her, “Wow, great idea! How lucky are we those guys knew how to do that!”

She threw me a sideways scowling glance, “Yeah, how lucky.”

Marilyn pulled CDs out of our merch case and handed them to me, “I’ll go pay for the gas if you give them some CDs.”

I walked over to the bearded man as they were saddling up, “Hey, thank you guys. We really appreciate it. You saved the day, for sure! Here, take these.”

He looked at the CDs, “Which one is yours?”

I pointed at the reddish cover and asked, “What’s your name, anyway?”

He offered a handshake, “Mike, nice to meet you. You gals be careful out there.”

They fired up the hogs and drove away like heroes, like cowboys on horses riding off into the sunset.

Six months later I received a Facebook request from a guy named Mike in California. I checked out his page and saw he had a wife and daughters. His feed was full of proud family man photos. There were a few photos of him on his Harley. I hit “Accept.”

Eight years later, we are still Facebook friends, having survived the 2020 election being on complete opposite ends of the political spectrum. He drops me comments or messages a couple of times a year, “Listening to your music, love it. I hope you and your family are well. Don’t forget your keys.”

Sometimes, angels ride Harleys.

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*Names have been changed.