The sun broke over the harbor and displaced the lingering full moon as Chance crept into his garage and shut down the West Coast Chopper rigid. It was 5:30 a.m. The cops had been watching the streets of San Pedro all night for Chance and his riding partner, Vince, who had shot up The Spot saloon.

Chance enjoyed the industrial seaside community where he had moved less than six months before. San Pedro houses the Port of Los Angeles, the largest port facility in the world. Nearby is the competing facility in Long Beach, which keeps 'em both on the move. But San Pedro is not like many of the high-dollar coastal communities that would have the two riders constantly tagged for loud pipes, beanie helmets, no turn signals, you name it. Most of Chance's neighbors enjoyed the protection a couple of loud-as-locomotives, gun-toting bikers offered the gang-riddled neighborhood. A wheelie down the length of the narrow street wouldn't render a report to any white-bread citizens' safety league. Hell, if they had a community group, it would be for tallying gunshots every night. As a kid, Chance heard talk that if you wanted to get stabbed, San Pedro was the place to hang. Stevedores, longshoremen and merchant marines had made small Spanish bungalows their homes in the early '30s. Now most of the one- bedroom clapboard buildings stacked side by side like mining tenement houses were homes for stubborn, single, uneducated mothers trying to make ends meet.

Vince planned to slide north along the coast to meet his tall, blond, Germanic mate at their apartment. "I'll bet ya $20 you won't make it," Chance said, skidding to a stop along Pacific Avenue.

"Fuck it," Vince said, patting the .45-caliber H&K in the satchel on his hip. "That's a bad bet, you babe-chasin', broke bastard. We don't have 20 bucks between us, but I'll make it." He did a burnout and blasted in the direction of Point Fermin and the coastal route. "I'll call ya later," he hollered, rattling windows up the street. Chance just nodded and turned down his street.

He shook his head as he put the long chopper in the side door to the garage. He had modified the rickety old garage just to hold his bikes. He had buttoned up the doors facing the street so bike thieves wouldn't have any easy access to his garage. They'd be forced to come in the yard first, where he could lay down a clear line of fire from his riot pump shotgun. They'd be trapped like dogs in the city pound. Certain death awaited.

He thought about wild-assed Vince's love life. Vince and Nicole were a most unlikely pair. Yet, even though he never seemed to shut up and she could hardly speak any English, they got along. "I don't cares," she muttered when Vince suggested that he might start a harem. There was some kind of chemistry there. The mating gene eluded Chance. He wanted to find a woman who fit him, wouldn't fight him, rode with him not on him, enjoyed pinto beans and jalapeņos and tequila on cold nights, and could keep up and contribute when there was shit to do. He locked up the garage and meandered to the front porch. As he attempted to unlock the door, hampered by a lingering Jack Daniel's buzz, he noticed a note taped on the door: "Sorry about the cop. When will I see you again? --Susanne." He crumpled it in his hand but didn't throw it into the trash-strewn gutter. It wasn't because of his civil consciousness. He couldn't let go, even though he had known her for less than a couple hours, and she was already causing havoc in his life with her former boyfriend-cop. They had spoken less than 25 words, but her taste, smell and wispy softness stuck to his senses. He turned the key and went inside.

Chance threw his jacket and gloves on the chair and went outside to retrieve the mail from his Mustang-tank mailbox. He added the bills to the ever-growing, knee-high pile in the corner, then came across a greeting card with feminine handwriting. Setting everything else aside, he opened the card. The words floated on a cloud of perfume that drifted off the page. "Hello darling, It's been so long I thought I would fly out to the coast. I know you don't remember, but my birthday is on Friday, so I'm flying in Thursday night. My dream is to spend all day in bed... Love, Karen."

It was Tuesday morning and there was still a mist on the harbor as the sun cranked up its throttle and burned off the moisture from the night. Chance thought about his constant dilemma with women. He wasn't a bad looking guy, but he wasn't Tom Selleck either. He loved romance and wanted to find a woman who would share the adventure but not destroy his freedom. Until the day the marrow in his bones melted at the sight of his woman, he would test the waters, search and dig. Trouble was that each woman who entered his life left her mark on him. He was getting too many to count.

The phone rang as he pondered the week, looking forward to Karen's arrival. "Hey, wonderful. Whatta ya doin'?"

Chance recognized the voice immediately. "Sheila, how are you?" "I'd be better if we could spend a few hours together," she said.

"Of course, baby. What's on your mind?"

Sheila was a hot model from Marina del Rey. She had been through a bout with cancer and lost her career as a dancer. She had picked up a gig at a car dealership to get her by as she paid off her medical bills. Chance had helped her out as long as he could. She was crazy for him, in spite of his indifference. She always thought she had a chance with him. She too was looking for love. "I'll see you tonight," she muttered and hung up.

Chance tried to say, "You got it, babe," but she was already gone. He made his way down the hall and turned into a small closet housing his fax machine, computer printer and CD player. "Music, goddamnit," he barked at his cat, Gumba, and flicked on the power. Oldies spilled out and slithered from room to room on the hardwood floors. While turning to leave, he noticed that his fax machine was blinking and bent to retrieve a sheet of paper from the tray. The note began with a twist, "I can't stand the snow any longer. I must leave. Will you still be there for me? Can I come to visit?"

Chance was confused, then realized who it was from -- a buxom brunette from Wyoming with a chain of women's spas. After years of being trapped in an ugly marriage, she had broken away, scooped up her two teenage girls and begun a new life. For the last couple of years she'd done an admirable job of making the most out of each day. Step by step, she built a clientele selling beauty supplies to salons. Now she had her own business. Chance had met her on his way to Sturgis one year and they had been in touch ever since.

Chance sat on the edge of the bed and began to remove his boots when he heard a banging on the front door. He rushed to see who it was. With one hand on the door knob and a snub-nosed .38 in the other, he peered through the glass block adjacent to the jam. Suddenly he let go of the knob. The banging intensified. "I know you're in there," she shouted, her flaming red hair dancing around her shoulders. She was tall, with just the right amount of ass coupled with perfect double Ds. "You sonuvabitch, come out. I know you were seeing someone else and I can prove it."

Chance backed away from the door. She was his nemesis, the terminator of his heart. He never saw another woman as long as he was with her, but her jealous rages drove a wedge between them, like a semi-truck between two scooters. For some strange reason, the fire still raged, but Chance knew this one could literally kill him as finally as a .45 slug between the eyes. He took another step back and wondered why he was so attracted to her. He knew deep down he could never have her. Although he'd once felt she was the one, she wasn't, and it was time to move on.

If only they could have fixed the electrical charge between them. If only ... Chance sat on the edge of his tattered couch and listened to her batter the door. He couldn't open it to acknowledge her screaming or argue with her. It wouldn't work. For all his power and passion in other circumstances, here he was out of his element, out of control, at sea and rudderless. His mind slipped from woman to woman. He was lost, in love with them all, wishing one would fill his every dream, wondering if he could ever find peace.

Vince screamed along the coast as the sun lit the splashing waves on the rocky cliffs. The streaks of gold bounced off the vast ocean like the roar of his pipes against the unforgiving asphalt. The coastline is jagged and wandering. The farther he pulled away from the San Pedro side of the point jetting south along the Pacific, the higher the home prices became. In the dwindling darkness ahead, he spotted a series of bright lights. There was only one traffic light in five miles and occasional lights from homes, so the blinking lights were unusual. He studied them through narrow tinted glasses. It could be a fire or a seaside accident. He rounded another curve and could make out the blue lights of police cars, then another and realized he was heading directly for a roadblock.

His thundering exhaust caught the ears of the officers and they went into full alert. Vince downshifted and turned inland at the next street. Sirens wailed in the distance as he aimed the black Wide Glide toward the hills and scrambled for safety. He goosed the throttle as the black and whites rounded the corner. He knew immediately that if he tried to outrun them, they would call in helicopters and he would be finished. So he immediately pulled into a strip mall, zipping along the dark storefronts, then between two buildings and behind a dumpster. He skidded to a stop, shut off the bike and walked into an all-night grocery store. He found the pay phone and called Chance. His answering machine picked up.

At that moment, Chance was having troubles of his own. "I know you're in there, you biker piece of shit," the redhead shouted. Her lipstick was smeared at odd angles, obviously applied in a fit of crazed anger. Chance stood at a distance and gazed through the muted glass at her tattooed-on eyebrows and fake boobs, and gritted his teeth. He hadn't seen her in months. What the hell was she mad about? On one hand, he wanted to open the door and embrace her. On the other, he would just as soon knock out all her capped teeth, or worse. He backed away from the door, from the insanity of her psychotic passion. Chance moved down the hall as the phone rang. He collected his Bandit's Bedroll, stuffed some clothes in it and opened the bedroom window. He tossed the bag outside. Just before leaving, he picked up the phone and dialed for messages. He had two. He pressed one, "Hi honey, I called to tell you I just got my boob job and I want to come visit. We need to try 'em out." Chance recognized the voice as his blond, 22-year-old connection from Northern California. "Please call me," she said and hung up. He deleted the message as the beads of sweat built on his forehead. The second message began as abruptly as the hammering on the front door. "Chance, it's Vince. You were right, we've got to get out of town for a while. I'll meet you on the Vincent Thomas Bridge at 90 mph in 10 minutes." The phone went dead.

Chance needed to get out of town for a lot of reasons. Too many women were going to be disappointed, some would be angry, one would always be crazed. A few he would try to make amends to, but he now needed to ride and ride fast. He threw on his leathers, tossed his gloves into the yard and climbed out the window. He made his way through the foot-high weeds and opened the garage as quietly as he could. He pulled his bike onto the concrete and turned it around to face the gate, which lead to a walkway directly past the front door. He had no choice. He opened the gate and propped it open silently with a stone. He returned to Jesse's West Coast rigid creation. Still warm, it fired immediately. He tore out of his back yard, leaving the startled, angry redhead screaming on the deck. Flying off the curb, he thundered down the bluff to Harbor Boulevard, slid to the stop, hung left and cranked.

Vince waited a few minutes and rumbled quietly out of the back of the mall. Along side streets and through cluttered alleys, he backtracked across town to Chance's stomping grounds. He gradually picked up speed as he neared the street that would take him to the sweeping on-ramp of the Vincent Thomas Bridge, toward the federal prison on Terminal Island.

Chance flew along the harbor heading for the bridge that took a constant line of 18-wheelers from the west end of the city to the docks on Terminal Island. "Terminal" rolled around in his mind like an omen. Whereas Vince was chased by every San Pedro cop, Chance's problems involved the fairer sex. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw a smoking Cherokee sliding onto Harbor. "Damn," he muttered and pulled on the throttle. The 98-inch S&S motor barked and he wheelied through a red light. The red Cherokee was fast approaching. In the distance, he could hear the thunder of another motorcycle, the Street Stalker, with its Bartels' shotgun exhaust system barking through the mist. Then he heard a siren. Chance rotated the throttle harshly, like a whip to the devil's steed.

Vince, his jet-black hair streaming behind him, ducked into an alley, trying to evade the cops, then onto Gaffey and down the long ramp to the Vincent Thomas Bridge. Chance swung into the left turn lane on Harbor, sliding sideways, the Cherokee fast approaching. He blew through the light and up the street where a sweeping right would launch him onto the bridge. Leaning hard and right into the curve, his foot peg ground hard against the pavement, sending up a shower of sparks. He sensed the fast-approaching black beast, but something else was in pursuit. A black and white, siren blaring, lights flashing, tore after him. Chance poured more coal to the fire, crossing the guiding line and moving into the number two lane just as Vince pulled alongside of him. No time to acknowledge each other, they just pressed their chests against vibrating tanks and hauled ass.

The Cherokee, which was being driven by the screaming redhead, hit the on-ramp at breakneck speeds. Frightened by the lifting motion of the top-heavy vehicle, she mistakenly hit the brakes. The lumbering 4-door lifted onto two wheels, banged over the curb-like medium and dove onto the bridge sideways, directly in the path of the cruiser. Mayhem ensued. Chance and Vince ignored the crashing sounds of the screeching tires and the grinding of metal fading behind them as they sped away. Flying over the bridge, the brothers glanced at the shimmering sea beneath them, then flew down the opposite side onto Terminal Island. The ancient prison facility on their right reached out to them. Two miles and they would be on the Long Beach Freeway, heading inland to the 91, to the 10 and.... "We need a break," Chance yelled to his longtime riding partner over the thundering scream of the two machines. "Phoenix," Vince shouted back and they turned up the heat.

On To Part 4 - Escape From L.A.....

Back to Part 2 - She Wore Blue Velvet....

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