The gasoline in our blood is thicker than water. Starting a fire from within once we feel that force. Fear is now a mindset that no longer serves us. So we take our chances and brake at the last second, revealing a smell of burning rubber. Leaving marks on roads like memories on souls. We are alive.
American motorcycles are the only language we speak, loud and clear, like the pipes underneath. No offense and none taken. We have arrived, now let it be known. We are young. We are hungry. We are not backing down. For us, living without riding is like shooting without aiming
Armed with nothing but love, we are no motorcycle club. Only likeminded souls with goals to reach. With forty-five engines strong, the list is closed. But the roads are ours, as much as they are yours.
