Every minute of every day in our life, we make choices we must live with. Choose wisely.

PROLOG

Summer ‘75 

The clerk peered anxiously out the window as the low vibrations grew into a thunderous roar. This noise was all too familiar; he gestured to the other man at the register to verify his handgun was within reach. A dozen patched riders stirred up loose gravel as they rolled into the parking lot. This was the only gas station for twenty-five miles from the town limits, and indeed, it was the only functioning building along this barren stretch of road. The pizza place adjacent to the Speedy Mart had long been shuttered, and the crumbling garage nearby was closed more often than open. 

Two riders, Parks and Squire, topped off their tanks before pulling to the exit, positioning themselves to face the road like sentinels. 

“Grab me another pack,” Squire shouted back at one of the riders as he neared the barred door of the building. The man, despite being only in his early thirties, looked older due to his lifestyle. His thin frame quaked as a harsh cough erupted, and he spat out a dark fluid onto the ground. 

“Damn, these things are gonna kill me!” he muttered, lighting another Camel. Parks cast him a look of indifference and shrugged. 

“We all gotta go at some point.” He reached into his vest for his own cigarette. Lowering his head and shielding himself from the nonexistent breeze, he lit it. Exhaling a long plume of smoke, he watched the mart’s entrance as three bikers returned to their motorcycles. One tossed a pack to Squire, calling back, 

“You owe me.” Squire raised his middle finger in a grin and stuffed the pack in his saddlebag. 

Flicking ashes into the wind, Parks let his thoughts drift as he awaited Mohawk, the club president, to emerge so they could get back on the road. 

He had been riding with this crew for over ten years. Parks never experienced much of a childhood. His dad was part of the club and worked as a long-haul truck driver, often gone for days or weeks. His mother usually worked the late shift at a local restaurant, so he learned to fend for himself early on. 

Sometimes, Parks returned home from school to find his mother intoxicated after his father took off again, claiming it was for club business, leaving Parks to care for her. 

He was aware of the reputation of the trailer park where he lived, which also housed the clubhouse. He often overheard whispers at school, or when some of the guys, unaware he was present, would talk about illegal activities that even a young Parks understood were wrong. 

It didn’t take long for him to grasp the true nature of the ‘club’: a biker gang, and that his father was a part of it, proudly wearing their colors. He also learned early on not to inquire about club business, a lesson learned from the painful consequences of his one and only question. 

On one rare occasion, when his father was home and they worked on a bike together, his father firmly grasped He grabbed Parks by the  shoulder and locked eyes with him, saying,

“Hey, kid, I need you to do something for me. You need to promise.” Parks was around twelve then and had never seen his father so frantic. His eyes flitted out of the carport, past the bike, surveying the other lots nearby.

“Sure, pop. What do I need to promise?” Parks would commit to anything. His father’s moods could shift quickly, and at that moment, Parks was uncertain of which direction. Besides, he was building a custom bike for him. He didn’t want to do anything to make him angry and stop. Though it had an old frame and parts from other bikes, Parks didn’t care; he just wanted to ride with the guys and spend time with his father.

The older man crouched by the rear fender, still holding onto his son’s shoulders. Now, noticing the sadness in his father’s eyes and his gaze drifting past him made Parks feel uneasy.

“What is it, Pop?" Parks asked, looking around but seeing no one. His father’s grip tightened, and his eyes narrowed. Parks flinched but stayed silent and didn’t pull away, knowing the consequences of that.

“You need to listen to me. Stay away from the,” he paused, “Club. Don’t get close to any of those guys. This lifestyle has no glamour or goodness.” He motioned towards the bikes they were fixing. 

“And if something happens,” he paused again, scanning the surroundings. " If I’m not around, you and your mother should get as far away from here as possible. Make better choices than I did.” Parks slowly shook his head, his brow knit in confusion.

“If you don’t like the club, why don’t you just stop hanging out with them? Don’t ride with them anymore?” he asked quickly. “Once we finish my bike, we can ride together.” His father released his shoulders and managed a sad smile. Then, with a vacant stare, he Parks sighed and felt stressed. “Just don’t get involved; once you’re in, there’s no way out.” He listened intently, torn between the enticing mystery of his father’s silence and the clear warning. At a young age, he could grasp only that his father held company with a rowdy group of men who drank excessively and rode motorcycles. It wasn’t long before he learned what his father’s caution truly meant.

As he reached his late teens, Parks hadn’t seen his father at home for months. He now recognized that what some called a ‘club’ was viewed by most as a ‘gang,’ instilling fear and keeping many at a distance. His mother explained that his father had left her for another woman and had fallen into a deep depression, seeking comfort in pills and alcohol. One particular member, a rider named Squire—only a dozen years his senior—began showing up far too frequently. Parks overheard his mother yelling at Squire to leave her alone. Having grown into a tall, strong young man, Parks finally reached his breaking point with Squire’s harassment of his mother. He physically tossed the intoxicated Squire off his porch. Most nights, he listened to his mother’s cries behind her locked bedroom door, cursing his father for abandoning her.

After his father’s departure, Parks started spending time with the guys from the club. Although he wasn’t involved in their business, he overheard enough. To earn some money and cover the lot rent since his mother had stopped working, he took a job as a barback at the club. Most days, his mother remained in bed, hardly getting up at all.

Three weeks before turning eighteen, he sat in algebra class when the guidance counselor walked in. The teacher and counselor shared worried whispers before one cleared his throat. “Parks, would you come with me?” It wasn’t really a question. “And bring your belongings." As he grabbed his backpack and shoved his books inside, he noticed his hands shaking and felt a tightness in his stomach.

Upon stepping into the hallway, he saw two police officers waiting. He turned to the guidance counselor and asked flatly, "What did she do this time?” One of the officers accompanied him.

“Son, there’s been an accident. We need to take you home. We’ll drive you there.” Suddenly, Parks shoved his hand in his leather jacket pocket, feeling the comfort of the cold, jagged edge of his motorcycle key pressed into his palm. Something felt terribly wrong. Struggling to keep his voice steady, he pressed,

“What kind of accident?” Now, panic started to rise within him.

“Let’s get to my office, and we can discuss what happened. In private. Calmly.” One officer exchanged glances with the other, and Parks noticed a sympathetic look on one of their faces.

He had been pulled from class before due to issues with his mother—whether from her going on a bender, creating havoc in a store, or threatening a neighbor—but he had never been met by police. No, this was different.

Once they reached the office, one of the officers, not the one who showed sympathy, coldly informed him that his mother had overdosed. Parks remained expressionless—no anger, no tears—but inside, he was in turmoil. 

“Is she alive?” Everyone looked at him, but no one answered. Deep down, he already knew. He also understood what would come next. for him. When the officer turned to converse with the teacher, he seized his opportunity and dashed out of the room, sprinting down the hall to his bike parked in the lot. The officers ran after him, shouting.

“Hey, kid, stop. Don’t get on that bike. Stop.” But Parks was oblivious, ignoring their yells as he mounted his bike, kicked the stand up, and revved the engine, speeding out of the school lot toward the trailer park, where he anticipated what awaited him.

He was acutely aware of his reputation: troublemaker, despite being a straight-A student who had never skipped school. He fit the stereotype: poor, the son of a biker, with a mother who was a careless drunk. Years ago, he had resigned himself to this fate. He always feared that this day would arrive. Now, he was totally alone, a chilling realization washing over him as he rode. What would he do now?

Following that horrible week, he was able to avoid social services by staying with Squire and some members of the club. In three weeks, he would be legal. On his eighteenth birthday, Squire inducted him into the club as a prospect, and after completing his initiation, he became a full-fledged member of the chapter.

That was more than ten years ago- a lifetime. These men and his bike have become his only family. While he sat waiting to hit the road again, he reflected, sadly, on how different his life could have been if he had just left. But he stayed. His father’s words resonate in his mind: ‘There is only one way out.’