AUTHOR’S NOTE
The seed for this story was planted in the early 1980s, when I was a student at the University of San Diego. There was a Catholic priest on campus who rode a Harley, a man with a rebel’s heart and a confessional style that stretched the boundaries of grace. One afternoon at Ocean Beach, board under my arm, I spotted him again. Only this time he wasn’t alone. He was riding with a notorious outlaw motorcycle gang. When I started toward him, he gave me a quick, secret wave to stay back. That moment burned itself into my memory. For decades I wondered: Why was a priest riding with an outlaw club? What story was hidden behind that wave? This novel is my attempt to answer that question the only way a writer can—by letting imagination take the handlebars and seeing where the road leads. I hope the ride is as thrilling for you as it was for me.

Under my hood were 8 cylinders and 289 cubic inches of fuel and air capacity that produced 225 horsepower. All those horses could propel me to speeds over 120 mph. They called me a Mustang pony but if you ask me, I was pure thoroughbred.

“Come on, Son! The new Batman TV show is going to start soon,” my dad shouted from the kitchen. I was so excited. My dad had been telling me about this new superhero show for weeks. I ran from my room leaving G.I. Joe to fight his own battles as I slid into my favorite place in front of the TV.

I stood in the huddle with raindrops cascading down my helmet. The cold rain stinging my eyes. It was a typical October night in Seattle, 41° with a steady stream of rain. I could see everyone's breath steam out as eleven of us stood in the huddle at the 42-yard line of the opponents.

I wonder which way to turn or even if a turn is possible? In the distance I hear a howling, maybe a coyote? No, the pitch is too low, there is too much growl in it. Ah, is it a wolf out roaming the woodlands on this effervescent evening?

"Then I would remember the old Nike commercial: Just Do It! But what would put me over the top and heading southbound on I-5 toward the dojo was Sensei’s expression about training: “Just Get Here!”

The freedom of the sun’s rays escaped from the clouds, penetrating deep into my bronzed skin. My manic thoughts are mercifully calmed by the sound of the water lapping on the hull and the wind rippling the sails. The smell of suntan lotion and sea spray ease my psyche and spirit.
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