Cruising down the freeway. Fifth gear. Eighty miles an hour. Open road, open-face helmet. Wind beating me down, but I’m steady. Can’t grip too hard. Stress causes mistakes.
Shirt whipping up my back. Engine roaring, begging for more speed. But Monday 215 traffic doesn’t play nice. I could push past the edge, but that means risking it all. That’s not in the cards for me. Today, at least.
A gust of wind. Hold on. Another. Fuck. Feels like I’m sparring in a boxing ring. Each hit landing on my chest, my arms, my jawline. But you take it. You always take it. What’s the choice?
Bag’s strapped to the sissy bar with four neon green bungees. It’s loaded heavier than usual. My handlebar bag’s running light: insurance, registration, night glasses, HOG lifetime card, and the 5″ folding blade I found in my dad’s jacket after he passed. I keep it around for good luck and a think of it as a watchful eye while on two wheel.
Car cuts me off. No signal. Asshole.
I slip between lanes, think about flipping him off, but it’s Monday morning. Nobody’s caffeinated yet. He’s forgiven.
Two exits to L.A. This stretch is chaos. Mergers, last-second lane changes, lost drivers staring at signs like they’re written in another language. I’ve done this ride for three years. It’s the daily commute trail. Predictable. Predictably bad.
Except today, nature wanted in.
Lane change. Dodge a dented silver minivan. Line up for Las Vegas Blvd. That’s when it happens.
A gust hits just right. The handlebar bag flips.
I push it back down with my clutch hand, throttle steady. Eighty miles per hour, staying the course. Another gust. Bag’s upside down again. Shit.
I tell myself it’s fine. It’s strapped. Nothing’s falling out. What’s the worst that could happen?
Then it rocks. Buckle loosens. The strap vibrates apart, surrendering to Harley RPMs and desert wind. One buckle left. Then none.
Corners of a worn white paper creep out. Insurance, probably. Replaceable. But if the knife falls out? No. That’s different.
I merge right, slow to seventy. Safer speed for stupid decisions.
Left hand on the bag, leaning forward, thumb and fingers pushing papers back inside. Stubborn, but miraculously, they obey. I glance the mirrors. No collisions yet. No immediate threats. Still alive.
I hover over the saddle, lock one strap back in. The other fights me. The Blvd exit looms. Focus. Turn left. Two cars beside me. Both distracted. One’s talking, one’s staring at his lap. Pocket pool or texting, take your pick.
Fuck it. Twist throttle. Eighty again. Straightaway. I tie the strap in a half-assed knot and pray. Wind punches me again. Pushes my helmet back. Bag holds. Another punch. Still holds.
Red light ahead. Clutch. Downshift. Rear brake. Front brake. Stop.
Breathe. For now, everything’s strapped down. But out here, nothing ever really is.