Blu and Sonny sat on the Port Costa concrete pier at the water's edge along the Carquinez Strait, sipping imported beer. Several other motorcyclists who frequented the old Port on weekends walked the nearby railroad tracks, sipping a drink and story telling just beyond earshot. Blu and Sonny watched the few fishermen at the water's edge cast their lines and bait hooks.

Sonny flipped his cigarette butt into the water and blew smoke towards Blu. "I hear California got a million dollar grant for the CHP to patrol the back roads."

"No shit?"

"Yup. Started the first of the year."

"How come? I mean, what's with the back roads?"

Sonny stood, stretched and stroked his Van Gough beard. Blu knew it was time to head towards their Harleys backed against the curb by the front door of the local bar.

"Well, when you think about it, how do the truckloads of undocumenteds get around? Like those guys fishing here along the Straight? And where do we ride to avoid traffic so we can rip along?"

"Geeze, man. That'll be lonely duty out there. And hot, too."

"And no doughnut shops. Ha."

"Yeah. They won't be in much of a mood when they stop somebody."

"And with all the TV shows showin' how great the California back country is and all the brochures comin' out about it,'n rightly so, they're gettin' pretty popular."

"Geeze. That means we'll have to be watchin' ourselves when we're out there, crusin'. With our reputation, we'll be body-cavity searched in no time."

Near the door to the bar, Blu asked Sonny if he wanted another beer.

"Naw." Sonny took a rag from his saddlebag and wiped the parking lot dust from his gas tank, then seemed to caress the chromed headlights with the rag.

"Maybe we'd better not wear our motorcycle club vests when we're ridin' to Nevada and Oregon, he said."

"Screw that. This is America."

"Yer right," Sonny said. "But distribution won't be so free'n easy any more. Be hell if a helicopter patrol shut us down."

"Yeah. The Oakland crowd would get up-tight if we couldn't get our bike trailers unloaded. Especially now that the crop is bein' harvested. Hate to have all those folks not get their meds."

"Yeah. We'd better ride our cycle trailers up to Mendocino, load'em up and return this weekend. I don't wanna ride loaded during the week any more. We gotta look like tourists,"

"On these hogs? Blu exclaimed. You been usin' your own stash? Get real, man. As if our black leather, inked arms and these idiot beanie helmets ain't a dead give away. Come on. Let's ride north."

They mounted their bikes. Both machines barked bad breath and blew faint clouds of blue exhaust. Leaves and dust swished against the bar's door. Several tests of throttles growled to the small neighborhood announcing that the machines were very much alive and well.

Before the duo left the Port, Sonny said, "I'm thinkin' I might take that job I interviewed for. He adjusted the strap to his skullcap-like helmet. Blu stood, straddling his vibrating mount. "What friggin' job, man? At the refinery?"

"No man, no. That machine adjuster's job at the sugar plant, right down the road. What's your problem?"

"Oh, cool. I applied for an oil refinery job after that explosion a while ago. But they only had one opening. I wouldn't want to go up against you, man."

Sonny revved his engine. "How come we're both thinkin' about this work thing?"

Blu lit a cigarette and sucked in a few deep drags. "Geeze, Sonny. The streets are gettin' tougher,'n I'm not gettin' any younger."

Sonny's bike ripped out into the street spewing dust and gravel. He yelled, "We're gettin' lazy, man. We're loosin' it."

The bikes sounded more and more distant as they wound their way out through the nearby golden hills, dried from long, luxurious summer months.

A fisherman trodded his meager catch back to his pick-up truck as a gentle, peaceful calm settled like the dust over the old Port.