Page 1 of Bad Attitude
One
Raven
Nothing beats the feel of the wind rushing past at ninety miles per hour, or leaning into a long, curving corner, tires gripping the asphalt.
Just me and my Ducati, twice the horsepower-per-ton of a Ferrari. Crouching low over the tank as I climb the mountains above LA, flicking through tight switchbacks, riding Angeles Crest.
Drops, blind corners, quiet and isolated, with just enough danger to add a little spice to my morning.
It helps keep my anger at bay.
The late June sun already promises another scorching day, forcing me to push harder if only to get some wind through my leathers. It’s cooler with each thousand feet I climb, and the breeze is welcome.
Riding a bike isn’t like driving a car. There’s no steel cage; nature is immediate.
A raven sits on a post, watching me with adark eye, unperturbed by the noise of my engine. I give it a wry smile as I pass. The birds are common around here; intelligent, usually alone, more dangerous than they look, stubborn and utterly fearless. Its feathers are the same color as my hair.
Out here, traffic is rare. I zip past a pickup like it’s standing still. The driver honks—not in surprise or admonishment but a double-blast, the second note held, a wolf-whistle I leave in my wake.
Most men can’t handle a girl on a bike. Especiallythisbike. And this girl.
One hundred, two hundred yards of a low barrier, and it’s gone again, the side of the road dropping steeply down into the valley. Get it wrong, and I land down there somewhere, broken bones, no phone signal, probably bleeding out from internal injuries hours before help arrives.
Nah. The coyotes would get me first.
I grin at the thought.
A biker out even earlier than me comes the other way. He’s on a Harley, cruising at thirty, with time enough to raise his left hand and pat the air with aslow downaction. I flip him off and lean into the next bend, twisting the throttle as the road opens up.
I know this stretch well. Tall pines press in close, reflecting the sound of my engine, and the air drops another ten degrees. I zip my jacket up, and it cinches across my chest. A moment later, I pass Newcomb’s Ranch. It was an iconic biker bar until it closed six years ago during the pandemic, and I’ve never been there. Probably too busy for me anyway.
But Franco’s is a dive bar I know in Wrightwood, twenty-eight miles ahead. I’ll be ready for breakfast by then.
I check the time on my display: 10:34. Can I do it in half an hour? Tall ask on these roads, but a challenge is what I need.
Eleven o’clock is the goal; if I get there one minute before, I might still persuade Joe to serve me up some pancakes. My reward’s waiting for me.
For a while, I lose myself in the road, my focus absolute as I concentrate on the bends. Brake, lean low, touch the apex, accelerate out with the rear wheel squirming for grip. My Ducati is heavy and I’m 5’6, not built like a Russian wrestler. But it’s not about strength, it’s about balance and momentum, helping the bike do what it wants to do. Some strong men can’t ride this bike because they fight it. The secret is to dance with it.
Ahead of me, a single rear brake light glints through the trees, and around the next corner, I get a brief glimpse before the road hides them. It’s not just one bike, there’s at least three of them, spread out in a line, the bends too numerous to just burn past.
Fuck.
Why is anyone on my road?
I hate people.
Braking late, I take the first one on the next switchback, turn inside him, and accelerate away. We’re close enough I hear his curse of surprise.
Use your fucking mirrors, asshole.
The next guy slows, his head glancingto the side. He slowedbeforehe checked behind him, and that tells me they’re on comms. Great, they all know I’m here—that should make it easier.
Except it doesn’t. This dick doesn’t move and let me by; he blocks me.
I check the time: sixteen minutes to reach Wrightwood before Franco’s stops serving breakfast. I need to get past these guys.
We’re out of the trees now, at the highest elevation. The road narrows, the center line is a faded yellow, raw mountain on my right and the drop to my left is so steep I can’t see the bottom. But the current stretch runs straight for two hundred meters, and that’s more than I need.
