The sun beat down on the black of his leather vest, the black of his motorcycle. The gear strapped to his back felt heavy after the hours of riding to the old abandoned ranger park in the middle of back country campgrounds a few counties away.

Meet ups were always a time. Good or bad, Sam wasn't sure he knew. Something stupid always ended up happening, and he was always one of the ones who had to help clean it up.

Sam followed behind some local club members, eyes ahead, passing campgrounds. Some empty, some in use. He paid very little mind to them, focused on his destination, ready to crack open a beer.