They race past farms and barns tucked between fir-studded hills under bright blue skies. Sixty miles later and halfway to the coast, the bikers pull into a diner parking lot in a tiny town called Drain. At least 15 bikes are parked out front.

Inside, the rest of the Destination Riders are seated at a long table in the center of the diner where the waitresses keep up their end of the playful banter as effortlessly as they do the flow of coffee. Linnie, a biker whose short orange hair pokes out from a purple bandana, is rifling through an open folder, collecting dues and funds to cover expenses for an upcoming trek to Reno.

Terry, smelling of stale smoke and sweat, is the only one at the table not wearing the insignia of the Destination Riders. He’s no longer a member, and although there’s some grumbling at the other end of the table about his presence this morning, Terry shows no sign of discomfort. Sparse, curly hairs stick out from his fat jowls, and throughout the meal he grinds his fists into his small, oozy blue eyes. “I can tell you one thing,” he barks. “You ain’t never going to see a motorcycle parked out front of a psychiatrist’s office. You get on that bike and in an hour you forget the world.”

After breakfasts of white gravy over chicken fried steak, the group loiters outside around the bikes, smoking cigarettes, taking good-humored jabs at one another and checking out each other’s rides. Leather chaps and black fringe abound. On their jackets are patches and pins that tell where they’ve been—the big Sturgis Rally in South Dakota, Route 66, the Statue of Liberty, Las Vegas—how many miles they’ve logged in single trips, and how many they’ve ridden total. Mike recently earned his single-trip, 1,000-mile trip patch by cruising out to Cheyenne, Wyo. and back with only coffee and bathroom breaks. He also sports a 50,000-mile, total-mileage patch, but his current total is closer to 70,000 now, and he’s set a goal to have the 100,000 patch within the year.

“Okay here’s one for you,” Jake says, strutting up to Mike. The long joke he proceeds to tell finishes like this: “Little Billy raises his hand and says, ‘When my Aunt Karen’s plane was shot down over Germany during World War II, she was parachuting down, and in her hands she had a bottle of whiskey, a machete and a hand grenade. She knew the bottle of whiskey would break upon landing, so she drank the whole thing down right there. When she hit the ground, she blew up 50 Germans and hacked another 20 to bits.’ ‘Why Billy, that’s a horrible story,’ the teacher says. ‘What could possibly be the moral there?’ “Don’t mess with Aunt Karen after she’s been drinking!”

After Jake and Mike get a good chuckle out of that one, Mike stamps out his cigarette, and the group mounts their bikes. Terry and Two leave to head back to town. The rest —12 bikes in all—fall into a staggered line that allows each rider full reign of the lane and a clear view of the others in the pack. Mike makes a swirling motion with his hand to alert the others to patches of loose gravel on the road.  When bikers pass in the opposite lane, Mike signals them by pointing low to the ground or flicking his wrist upward.  When a big silver hog goes by, and the driver doesn’t acknowledge the signal, Mike shakes his head.  Those Harley drivers, he thinks. 

 On the edge of Reedsport, the group makes a pit stop. It’s downright hot in the sun and, milling about in the gas station parking lot, everyone strips their outermost layer of leather. 

 “Hey, J.R. I’m real proud of you for not jumping Terry’s ass at breakfast,” Mike says.  J.R. is a tall, striking figure with a black beard gone white around his mouth and wild green eyes rimmed in tan wrinkles.  He was one of those grumbling at the other end of the table at the diner, one of those not too happy about Terry, a non-member, riding with the group.

“Well, I sure as hell didn’t say nothing to him. He fell out on the brotherhood. Twice. He decided he didn’t want to ride with us no more.” A few months back Terry left the Riders and started riding with another group. To J.R. nothing is more insulting or despicable. The brotherhood is not something to be taken lightly.

“He only came because Two needed someone to ride with,” Mike explains, trying to calm J.R., who seems to lie in wait for something, anything, to set him off. Two has been working out some kind of trouble with the law and has a probationary license that allows him to ride solo on his bike, but he has to travel with another fully licensed biker, like a spotter.

“Yeah, well, that’s the only reason I let it slide. Because of Two,” J.R. says, stalking off like a tiger in a cage that, no matter how big, will never be big enough.

Over cups of coffee inside the neighboring Mexican restaurant, Linnie’s husband Rusty, a boyishly handsome fellow who emphasizes nearly everything he says with a flinch of his face and a widening of his eyes, begins listing all the different walks of life represented in the Destination Riders. “I mean look at me,” he says earnestly. “I’ve been a mechanic, a welder, a biologist…”

“Yeah, you’ve been everything but rich,” Linnie chimes in, laughing.

J.R., meanwhile, is on a rant about being true to the biker creed. “The outlaw rule. It’s the only one to live by, isn’t that right, Mike?” he says, the slightest hint of challenge in his voice. “Be with your family, be with your brother, and don’t give your soul away. It’s that simple. I told my ex-wife: ‘Don’t make me choose, you’ll lose.’” J.R. has had four wives in the last three years.