We weren’t supposed to be late.
But we were.
Me, Clay, and Rosie — three bikes, two tents, one busted speedometer, and a cooler that hadn’t been cold since Valdosta. Angel City gates were closing at 9, and the sun was already threatening to duck behind the tree line.
So we did the only thing that made sense:
We started haulin’ ass.
Georgia backroads aren’t made for caution. They’re made for grit, dust, and cracked asphalt that hums under your tires like a song. Every curve we took, Clay leaned harder than sense would allow, Rosie’s pipes screamed like they were mad at the wind, and me? I was just grinning — the kind of grin that only shows up when you’re chasing something you’re not supposed to catch.
We made the turn past the gas station — the one with the dog that never moves — and the old water tower came into view. You could almost taste the bonfire smoke. A couple vendors were already tearing down, but that neon SALOON sign was still flickering like it was holding on for us.
We rolled in at 9:07.
No one asked for tickets. No one cared.
Someone handed Clay a beer. Rosie got a hug from a woman she hadn’t seen since the ’08 rainout. And me? I just parked, leaned back, and whispered thanks to the road.
Because sometimes you’re not running late —
You’re just riding fast enough to matter.