2. Meadow
Meadow
Present day
I live for the applause.
Some would say that but it is not the truth.
I live with ghosts and the only way to silence them is with the beast underneath my clutches. The loud rev that rings in my ears for days, and the open road to free me from the motherfucking devil that resides in my head and pushes boundaries.
I’m a risk taker.
I used to be a cocky prick at a certain point in my life when fame started to affect my attitude but my best friends immediately put me back in line, and then they left the face of the earth.
The flashy signs of Las Vegas passing me by but it is not my destination. I pass through the vibrant city, and the lively energy on my way.
Home sweet home, Nevada.
I’m heading to a remote location where anyone can get some peace—it’s more like a stop in the middle of the road except it has everything a person can imagine—we call it Desert Peak.
For decades it’s been there for anyone who needs good company and motorcycle action although cars are allowed too. It started small but grew into something so meaningful over the years for a lot of people. Freedom and racing are part of the deal if you won’t harm anyone and do it for fun. We’re family here, so when you mess with one of us, you mess with all of us. At least, it used to be with my best friends. My crew. It’s not the same without them.
The next traffic light hits the green and my motorcycle roars forward, following the familiar road back home.
I twist the throttle harder under my tenacious grip.
I lost count of the number of times I almost crashed my bike—a whole motherfucking lot if I have to guess.
That’s the price of doing something I love that is also dangerous, yet the risk is worth it every day when I’m on the tracks, stepping into the shoes of a pro motorcycle racer.
I smile inside my helmet and the pain doesn’t hurt so much when I ride.
The world championship season already started but I needed a minute to breathe and take a break from it all. It still weighs down on my shoulders every day. The images. The memories. The voices. They are all in my head all the time. Haunting me.
I was born in the wrong place at the right time because how else can I explain how lucky I am to have my family?
My parents were always transparent with me about the fact I was adopted. There wasn’t a shard of information about who my biological parents were.
The only information I have is written on my sharp features, the manly shape of my face, and my DNA. Native American. Italian. Korean. Those are just words for me. Do they make a difference? It doesn’t mean much to me because I grew up in a different culture, surrounded by multiple languages.
And am I a part of these communities if I wasn’t raised surrounded by them?
Technically… yes, it’s part of my identity.
In reality… I don’t know. For them, I’m a stranger.
I know that many adopted kids want to know about their parents and look for them when they grow up, but truthfully, I never wondered. My parents are my parents, and I know that the people who brought me into this world are out there whether they are alive or not, I’m just at peace where I am now.
The ones who touched my heart and stuck around—those people are my family.
I exhale a breath of satisfaction, catching speed as I pull in the clutch and shift gears, leaving dust behind me on the vacant desert road. At over a hundred mph everything blurs except the mile ahead.
One mile at a time.
I sigh in happiness.
Chemical by Post Malone blasts in my helmet as I leave another trail of dust behind me.
Thoughts creep in and cross each other in my chaotic brain. I often listen to this song because it talks about alcohol and what it does to people, what they experience when they consume it, and why it becomes an addiction. I hate alcohol, I steer clear of it because it is one of humanity’s worst enemies. It drags those who consume it to the bottom of the bottle, leaves them there, and pours some more atop until they drown.
I don’t need a drink, I need a smoke—that’s my addiction. I eat cigarettes like candies, and I fucking hate it but I just can’t stop.
I need it.
Now more than ever.
Closing in on the biker’s meetup, dozens of camping tents are already set up. Colorful caravans and dots of people roaming around and tanning under the sun as groups of bikers start to swarm the road.
I love this time of year.
Their eyes fixate on me as I pull into the enormous parking lot, park my Superleggera V4 by the end of a row, and kill the engine. Understandable. My girl is a beast, waiting to puff smoke, itching to graze the abilities she possesses.
Taking my helmet off, I shake my head to fix my tousled, jet-black hair. The smell of barbecues already envelops me as I hop off my bike.
The parking lot is surrounded by sand and some dry plants that occasionally sprout—we call it The Garage . It’s where the main events take place. This parking lot will become so much more exciting in two weeks from now once everyone settles and more people arrive.
With my helmet in hand, I put my shades on and stride toward the gas station across the road. Some would say this site is a dump in the middle of nowhere. True. It serves our needs to bring the community together and provide them with a safe place to hang out. It also prevents the cops and local authorities from pissing on our bonfire—metaphorically, of course, it’s like a hundred degrees out here.
There is no one around to jinx it.
The bar by the corner—Scythe—is one of the highlights of this place. The motel a few feet away is where some of the action happens. Some stay, some go, some come from afar, and some live nearby and join at some point.
A nice escape from our daily lives.
All are welcome.
If they can put up with the heat.
“Sick bike, dude.” A teenager grins at me, taking pictures on his phone.
I give him a thumbs up, “Thanks. Find me later, I’ll let you rev it.”
“I will! Thank you.”
I stride across the road, the loud buzz escorts me as I pass the gas station and then a flashback hits me.
“I’m Michael.” This kid comes out of nowhere, puts his fist in front of me, and waits.
“Meadow.” I fist-bump him.
“Want to see something cool?” He sneaks behind a parked car in front of the convenience store. “Look at this bike,” he points, “Street illegal.”
I shake it away when I reach the doors of the convenience store, Chaos and Arrow greet me at the entrance, wagging their tails and jumping to say hello. I crouch down and they both attack me by licking my face off, almost knocking my shades to the ground. I pet them thoroughly, brushing their fur back and forth.
“Good girls.”
I laugh as my lungs taste the gasoline-fueled air before I rise back up and enter inside.
“Look who it IS,” his booming voice echoes as he drags the last word like an announcer. “Come give your old man a hug.”
I slide the shades atop my head, put the helmet on the counter beside me, and embrace him tightly, “You’re not old, Dad.”
I missed them so much. The last competition was long and I barely saw them. Only through Facetime and I wouldn’t say I like those.
I squeeze Dad’s shoulder one last time, glancing at his gray appearance before Mom’s head pops behind his shoulder. I move to hug her and kiss her forehead while I scan Dad one more time.
“My summer is complete.” She subtly jumps in her spot, holding my wrist firmly—always been her way of reassuring me she’s not going anywhere. She used to do that the first couple of years I competed on the tracks.
I smirk at Dad, “Are those machine guns you call your arms… and the thick mustache.”
“You noticed.” He shows off the tight biceps he developed. “Had some spare time to kill.”
I sense the joke he’s going to make from miles away.
“Got bored of the weights and started lifting your Mom to clean the shelves in the back. At least it has its pros.”
Although it cracks me inside, “I really don’t need that image in my head.”
“Chill, you kids have one thing on your mind.” Mom is quick to intervene.
Every dirty mind has those regardless of age. And they know it.
“Hey, Russ,” Dad answers a call, “No problem, give me twenty minutes. Just saying hello to my son.” The call ends and Dad looks at Mom with one of his plotting expressions. “They need ice cubes, stat.”
“Ooh, an emergency… how exciting,” Mom giggles to herself.
They need this type of action here because normally that is all they’re going to get except for the summer.
Fuck yeah.
I need this break.
Badly.
These are my kind of people. Laid back. Fun makers. Bike-pumped enthusiast. Hilarious as hell. And the majority are the nicest people I ever met.
“You’ve been crowned ‘the destroyer of the tracks’ by Mom.” His voice pulls my attention back to him .
“You need to cut them some slack. They will get tired of seeing your sweet ass dusting them on the course if you keep winning all the time.” She pulls a few stacks of candies, layering them on top of each other. “One specific rider’s hostility nearly brought me to your last race. He needs to chill.”
The thing about sports is the competitive aspect of it all. Some would know how to lose a race with dignity and power up for the next one, some put the blame on others, or act out. “That’s just part of the sport. I don’t pay any mind to it. Getting beat up time and time again sucks. I was there once too.”
I let it drive me to become better.
“Well, I guess you’re better than me.” The colorful candy has her whole attention, “And smarter,” She adds.
“Mom…” The words slowly exit my mouth. “Did the candy hypnotize you or are you worried?”
She sighs. “I just don’t want you getting hurt by some idiot in order to win. Jealousy can drive people to do crazy things.”
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her closer into a bear hug. “You know when I’m in a race, you’re the voice in my head.”
“ The others aren’t important. You focus on your lane. Clear your mind of any distractions, and come back home to me afterward. “ I play her words in my head.
“I have my moments.” We laugh at that and she tightens her grip around me. “I love you, Meadow.”
The grin lifts my cheeks to the sides. “Love you, Mom.” I kiss her forehead before I snatch a piece of candy and toss it into my mouth.
Dad crosses the store to sneak a glance outside, “There’s someone out here making a fuss. They’re filming the whole thing.” He’s completely immersed in the image he portrays, “What a scandal. She cheats on him with someone else. Such an attention seeker this one.” The joke is laced in every word he utters. “ The Garage is on fire, go and handle the audience your bike is getting, son.”
“M-hmm.” Mom hums in her glorious sassiness, putting her palms on her hips.
Turning his head in our direction, “What?”
“Nothing.” Her mouth twitches to the side, “Mister, whatever you need, you come to Milo.”
He walks inside and catches Mom between his arms. “Providing good service isn’t a crime, my little, Donna.” He ends that statement by kissing her nose.
“So is having good bikes.” She retorts.
“Do you need help with anything?” I stroll past them, “Need me to handle the emergency?”
“No, all under control.” Dad goes to the back of the store.
“You just got here, get some rest.” She blows me a kiss before she heads back as well. “We’ve got the entire summer to nag you.”
I chuckle as I fix my shades on the slope of my nose, pull my ball cap that was attached to my jeans over my head, snatch my helmet back, and make my way outside—not before I grab a lighter and shove it into my front pocket .
BOOM!
As the loud noise resounds in the store, I halt, “Dad…”
“It’s okay, I got it,” he shouts back.
He’s one of the clumsiest people I know but it’s always because he’s giving something, helping someone, or thinking outside the box.
But it better not be the other thing that just assaulted my brain.
No!
I knew those dirty images would get me at some point.
My phone pings and I slide it out of my front pocket. Scrolling through endless messages my agent left me. A million notifications from social media, and the new harassment calls and messages I’ve been getting lately.
This is the part I hate about doing what I love. Everything comes with a price, doesn’t it?
The only messages I care about are from the biker squad group chat we started after I took a trip to New York with my cousin about two years ago. I immediately fell in love with those people and they became a second family to me.
We stay in touch all the time even though we live in different cities.
Bradley
What… ?
Ronnie
Motherfucker,
you’re asking questions,
you have to FOLLOW ALONG!
It’s after a hundred messages from everyone in the group.
Lennon
Haha, I can’t with you two.
Luka
Hahahaha, I think I just heard you in the shop.
Dylan
I’m DEAD!
Theo
I can’t stop laughing.
Frankie
Me neither.
Dean
I almost peed on myself.
Ronnie
You’re getting old, Daddy.
Lennon
Only I get to call him that!
Ronnie
Okay, mama.
Amber
This is what I have to deal with every day… haha.
Meadow
My condolences!
These people are hilarious.