Vince and Chance flew over the Vincent Thomas Bridge spanning the seaside harbor town of San Pedro and the coal, oil and container storage area of Terminal Island. With throttles pegged, their vests flapped like oiled leather bullwhips. They exploded across the bridge, just 6 square inches of rubber holding them to the damp surface broken up by slick steel gratings. Chance surveyed the largest port in the world, some 300 feet below in the green, oily Pacific harbor. The Harleys barked at the pavement as they crested the halfway mark and began a hurried decline.

Vince, the deacon of street-fighting discipline, never varied his course, not even to catch the golden sunrise just southeast of their direction. He never altered his gaze from the strict and rapid surveillance of the tarmac ahead. He shifted into fifth and blew through the intersection leading to the Henry Ford Bridge.

Off to the right, the sunlit sky rises portrayed a rejuvenated downtown, which once housed nothing but sailors, bums and rundown businesses. Vince and Chance would swing off to the right and enter the only seaside freeway in the world to house more 18-wheelers than passenger cars. The right two lanes of the Long Beach Freeway testified to the years of abuse with ragged cracked concrete every foot of the way.

The two riders' teeth rattled as the worn pavement struck their rear Avons like a karate kick. They quickly navigated into the free zone in the left lane. They poured the coals to the two machines. Vince was escaping the San Pedro cops for shooting a .45 automatic in the rundown Spot saloon. His bike was an 80-inch Street Stalker with shaved heads, BP-40 cam, Bartels' exhaust and Screamin' Eagle ignition. Chance was riding a 98-inch S&S motor with handmade exhaust, a stretched rigid frame and Weerd Bros. European wide glide, almost 14 inches over stock. The frame was stretched enough that it took that long front end to set the bike level, but it was comfortably at home on a freeway scooting along above 90 mph with 38 degrees of rake and 6 degrees of rake in the forks. Chance was trying to escape something far more treacherous, cunning and deadly than the cops: women. It was time to make a break, start fresh. He loved 'em all, but they were draining his wallet and pounding him emotionally. No contributors, just takers. Time to roll.

They thundered out of the seaport area, past the oil fields now hidden from view and into the garment district on the outskirts of downtown L.A. At the connector to the 10 Freeway, the brothers nodded at one another as they leaned side by side onto the ramp at 85 mph.

They were surrounded by the most deadly force on earth -- thousands of careening automobiles. The fearless duo made mince meat of their plodding sameness. Few handle the deadly steel blades of the car people the way Vince and Chance do.

As they moved with traffic, Chance felt something sting his skin. Then a rapid succession of droplets began to smack them. Almost in unison, the two brothers shouted "Fuck!" at the sky. No one heard their swearing above the drowning hum of the zillion wheels against unforgiving asphalt. The two leathered monks hunched over their handlebars to try and dodge some of the 70 mph rain drops. Visibility diminished as they tried to escape the commuter traffic for the open road leading into the desert.

Los Angeles, like a plaque on the golden coastline, rolls farther and farther from its roots by the sea until someday it will collide with Las Vegas in a shower of neon and pornography, street gangs and movie studios. Vince looked at his black powdercoated front wheel and at the wedge it was driving in the growing pool of water on the grated concrete. It didn't look good, yet they were forced to press on. If they could maintain a near hydroplaning speed, they could beat the traffic into the desert and be free of the congestion for the remainder of the ride to the border. The fresh rain raised grime and oil from the 65-grit surface, which made the ride more treacherous. Unprepared for the onslaught, they pulled off at a sprawling truck stop at the intersection of the 15 and the 10 freeways. They dodged an 18-wheeler traffic jam as they steered to the pumps and refueled.

"This can't keep up," Vince said, shoving the hose into the 5-gallon fatbob tanks.

"If you kept that fuckin' .45 in your pocket, we wouldn't be a couple of drowned rats running for the flood gates," Chance said. He unzipped his bedroll and pulled out a sweatshirt and scarf. Rain was already seeping into the roll and small patches of sweatshirt were damp.

"Fuck it, let's eat," Vince said, "maybe this shit will blow over." Vince was aware of his violent nature, his unrestrained desire to fight, shoot, kill. He had survived several near-death experiences. While on his father's Kansas ranch, he nearly lost one arm in a chainsaw accident. And more than once, while riding competition bulls, he was nearly crushed by 2000 pounds of angry muscle. He joked about the falls, the hospitalizations and the surgeries, but each bull's horn that nearly split his skull left a mark. Why was he still alive?

Crowded with truckers of all shapes and sizes, the terminal was bustling with activity. Whether it was the traditional pot-bellied driver in a T-shirt and bib overalls, the intrastate shipper in a plaid flannel shirt and Levis rolled up at the ankles over his industrial boots, or the button-down couple studying their charts and spread sheets, they all looked at the dripping wet grungy bikers with disdain. "Not the day for a ride," said a stout, elderly driver as he sipped his coffee and pulled on the bill of his ball cap.

"Nope," Chance said, pushing Vince toward a booth. They both ordered egg whites and a short stack and stared out the window.

"Where the fuck are we going?" Vince asked.

"Phoenix," Chance mumbled. "We'll hang out with Myron for a week, until things cool off."

"That's how far?"

"Little over 300 miles from here," Chance said. Outisde, truckers covered their heads with plastic trash bags to run for their cabs. The two chops were parked within view, as the code of the west dictates, but out in the open. What was a gradual, even rain escalated into a downpour. The sky darkened and drivers were turning on their headlights as they pulled away from the station.

"We better hit the road and see if we can outrun this shit," Chance said. He paid the tab with a stack of $1 bills. Gas prices were making it hard to be a cheap-livin' biker.

"Fuck," Vince muttered, looking out the window. A passing trucker dropped a couple of hand towels on their Formica table.

"You may need these," he said, eyeing the two soaked bike seats under an ever-increasing deluge.

The two brothers got up from the table and went to the head, put on every piece of clothing they carried and walked out to the bikes. No sense in trying to cover up. Being rained on was no match for the driving torrent they would face in five minutes on the interstate. They wiped down the seats, put on their shorty helmets, wrapped bandannas around their faces to prevent the stinging of the rain against their mugs and pulled into the street. It was one of those rare times when as riders they didn't think about breakdowns. A breakdown would have been a welcome respite from the water torture that lay ahead.

They rolled tentatively onto the freeway and gradually picked up speed. Visibility was short, but Chance noted a break in the cloud cover. His hopes skyrocketed and he nestled in for the 180-mile stretch to Blythe and the Arizona border. Warmth crept through the wet outer layers as they traversed 50 dry miles and were confident that the road ahead was clear.

It was Mother Nature's evil ruse to trap them into thinking the storm had lifted. Almost 200 miles from the city, the storm jumped them with both feet. Gale winds crossed the desert freeway, throwing tumbleweeds and sand into the wet mixture. Now they were in a gauntlet of biker hell, reaching for the next safe haven. Hunkered down against their tanks, with water running off their glasses and further limiting visibility, they tried to make time pushing 85 mph on the two-lane highway. With visibility at a maximum of 100 feet, they pressed into the fold. Chance moved out in front as he approached an 18-wheeler. The turbulence behind the massive, rolling container ship tossed his front wheel from side to side. As he neared, he began to draft the truck. The pocket behind the truck was protected and warm, but riding less than a bike length from a 75 mph semi is way too dangerous. So Chance moved to the left corner and into a turbulent zone. Suddenly the spray off the wheels consumed the bike and the spray from the cab ate the remaining visibility. Chance squinted but he couldn't see any more than 10 feet in front of him. He had no choice but to pour the coals to the stroker and pray that nothing happened before he cleared the front wheels.

Another treacherous aspect of the ride - the blowing wind -- hit home as he rounded the steel corner. Chance was whipping back and forth as he rounded the massive wheels when the gale was suddenly blocked by the thundering vehicle. Chance's-500 pound monster stood up straight as the storm gusts were momentarily blocked, only to be engulfed with the spray from the wheels. The quivering speedometer indicated nearly 90 mph in a blinding downpour. Quickly, the thundering stroker passed the trailer and the bike was windblown to the left, only to straighten again behind the cab. He was slapped with wheel spray and smacked with gale force winds once more as he pulled into the open and improved visibility.

Vince mentally crossed himself as he passed each semi. He wasn't religious, though his parents were Catholics, yet the thought of crossing himself gave him hope when entering a notorious rough rider zone where one false move could thrust a biker into a blender of careening metal and rain water.

Some 70 miles out, Chance sensed that he had lost Vince and pulled off the freeway. Vince showed up five minutes later and they rode off the freeway to a gas station. Stumbling into the store, Chance looked at a display of white socks. He bought a pair and struggled to pull off his soaked leather cowboy boots. He tossed the old holey socks into the trash and donned the new ones, standing in front of the gas stove. For a few moments Vince and Chance felt the comfort of heat against their frozen feet. But they couldn't thaw, for time was clicking and they had to make Phoenix and catch Mad Myron, who owned an Easyriders store on Scottsdale Road. It was their only hope for shelter. If they missed him, his crew couldn't catch the stocky weight-lifter until the next morning and the two drowned rats would become Phoenix homeless.

They rolled out of the station and back into the impending mayhem on the freeway. It wasn't long before they were slipping tires at 90 mph and watching out for 18-wheelers. Chance wasn't concerned about the truckers. He had always found their driving habits to be consistent and predictable. It was the stoner in the compact, packed with enough camping and hiking gear to last him a decade in the wilderness, that worried him. A lump in the road and the paranoid driver with a cell phone in one hand and a doobie in the other could send Vince and Chance dancing in the cactus.

With some relief, Vince peered over his narrow sunglasses and a state billboard along the freeway reported only 7 miles to Blythe. Blythe is the last bastion of misery before one jumps off the California cliff into the nothingness of the Arizona desert. One of the largest deserts in the world, the Mojave extends from California through Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada and Texas. Vince indicated that he was getting off the freeway and the two riders rolled to the right and into a Mobil station. Their new socks were already soaked, their feet were frozen and a pale coloring was replacing the bright cheeks of riders pelted with rain. Cold was beginning to penetrate their bones as they pulled into the station lot and 15 inches of water. They had little choice but to put down their boots. The motors sizzled as water reached the crank cases. They filled the bikes quickly and darted into the station to pay. Vince spotted trash bags and suggested that they cut holes in the bottoms to form ponchos. Sloshing through calf-deep water, they mounted their steeds and rolled back onto the freeway. Ponchos made of trash bags work if you duct tape them to your body, ride at 25 mph or wrap a bungee cord around your stomach to keep the bastard in place. At 90 mph, with some 160 miles to go, the green plastic flapped wildly in the wind. Shortly into the ride, the plastic shredded, slapping the riders in the face. But there was no stopping at this point.

The weather was deteriorating, the traffic slowing and the temps dropping. Chance could feel the water in his Justins splashing from side to side, but the one thing that never gave an inch was his chop. It hummed a defiant tune at the pavement, screaming at the rider to keep the throttle on and hard. It was as if the motorcycles were challenging the riders to stay glued to their saddles for the final miles. Traffic bunched about 50 miles outside of Phoenix, and Chance and Vince felt the onslaught of another metropolis rearing its ugly head. Drivers unaccustomed to wet weather swerved, braked and drove too slow. Both Chance and Vince felt the numbing effects of hypothermia as they reached the outskirts of the desert city, then tried to navigate the flooded side streets. The water ran up and over their boots at every intersection.

At the next stop, Chance looked over at his workout partner. Vince was pale and tired, his eyes distant. "Wake up," Chance shouted and slugged him.

"What?" Vince said, his eyes brightening.

"We're not far, brother," Chance shouted above the roar of the traffic, the pelting rain and the thunder of the powerful v-twins. "Hang in there, goddamnit."

Ten minutes later, Chance pulled into the parking lot of Easyriders of Scottsdale and the Billet Bar. Legs stiff, the bike wobbled. Vince slipped up beside him and kicked out his kick stand. Stepping off the bike, he almost fell into the 3 inches of water in the parking lot. Chance struggled to get off his bike as a buffed brute emerged from the Billet Bar. "What the fuck?" Myron shouted. "Get your asses in here."

Chance sloshed inside. As he shook Myron's hand, he looked over the weight lifter's stout shoulder. The bar was empty except for a girl in the corner drinking a margarita on the rocks. Chance was wet and chilled to the bone, and as the girl looked up, he felt himself begin to shake. She turned on her barstool, her red hair sparkling under the halogen bar spots. "Thought you could get away, didn't you?" she said.

Chance's eyes widened and he slowly backed out into the rain, terrified. "What's wrong?" Myron asked.

As Chance turned slowly, not knowing what to do, a police cruiser slammed into the lot. Flashers blinking in the dismal gray, a blip of siren startled the riders. Two officers jumped from the car and grabbed Vince, who was trying to take the bedroll off his bike and get out of the rain. The officers shoved Vince against the stucco building and scattered his belongings onto the wet pavement. "People are looking for you, asshole," hollered the officer with a sizeable beer gut.

Chance looked back at Myron. "No where to run, no where to hide." --Bandit

On To Part 5 - Vince, Chance And The Scottsdale Blues....

Back to Part 1 - Escape Through Terminal Island....

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