Seven Bikers Soaked an Old Man for Fun — Then the Youngest Rider Saw the Patch Under His Coat

The first motorcycle hit the puddle at almost fifty miles an hour, and the brown roadside water exploded into the air.

It struck the elderly man walking on the shoulder with the force of a physical blow, soaking him from shoulder to ankle. His thin gray hair instantly flattened against his forehead, and his glasses disappeared beneath a thick layer of muddy droplets. The paper grocery bag in his arms collapsed almost instantly under the weight of the water. A carton of eggs fell through the soggy bottom, shattering across the gravel. Two apples rolled toward the highway, and a fresh loaf of bread landed directly in the mud.

The old man stopped walking. The motorcycle did not.

At the handlebars sat Wade Mercer, the president of the local Black River Riders chapter. He glanced into his rearview mirror, saw exactly what he had done, and raised one hand in an exaggerated, theatrical apology.

“Sorry, Grandpa!” Wade yelled over the roar of the engine.

The riders in formation behind him laughed. Six more motorcycles barreled toward the puddle. They had plenty of room to shift lanes and avoid it, but they chose not to. One after another, they sent waves of dirty water across the shoulder until the old man disappeared entirely behind a curtain of brown spray.

By the time the last bike passed, the man's long brown coat was dripping heavily. One shoe stood on the wet gravel; the other had sunk deep into the muddy ditch. The pack of riders accelerated, their exhausts roaring as they headed toward a gas station half a mile up the road.

Only one motorcycle slowed down.

At twenty-two years old, Eli Foster had been riding with the Black River Riders for eleven months. However, he was not a full member. Not yet. His leather vest lacked the complete club colors, bearing no bottom rocker, and granting him no voting rights or authority. He was what the club called a prospect.