As dusk descended over the Arizona desert, daylight dissolved and the heat melted into the asphalt of Interstate 10. Hours on the old Harley, nonstop from San Diego, had left my knees barking against the encroaching chill. My stomach howled for food. My hands had gone numb an hour earlier from gripping the bars.

Now, lying in bed on a Saturday morning with a mug of coffee, I replayed that ride—and the wild week we’d just lived through.

I remembered glancing over at Doc, still cruising at eighty-five. He seemed oblivious to the fading light and cold wind. Doc could ride longer than anyone, and the new Indian Chief beneath him made his glide look effortless.

Up ahead I knew there was a rest area, but a few miles before it, I noticed a leaning exit sign, as if one of its legs had been kicked out: Exit 72 — Chebanse. I’d ridden this stretch of highway countless times, yet I’d never seen an Exit 72—or a town called Chebanse.

Curious, I took the ramp. Doc, caught off guard, blasted past and gave me the finger as he flew by.

At the stop sign I waited. He’d turn around; I knew him. Everything about the intersection looked wrong—new asphalt, fresh paint, no oil stains or tire marks. It looked…unused.

Moments later Doc came roaring the wrong way up the exit ramp. I grinned, bracing for the explosion.

“Dude, you coulda got me killed!”

“Needed a drink and a stretch, Doc, old boy,” I said. “You look like you could use some grub, too. Wouldn’t want to be responsible for you missing a meal.”

I pointed at the Chebanse sign. “In all your travels out here, you ever see this exit before?”

He squinted. “Uh, no.”

Good enough for me. I revved north, and Doc fell in behind.

We passed a boarded-up Texaco and stopped at a four-way. The streets were deserted. To the east, a neighborhood of tired old houses; to the west, a main street with a hardware store, a grocery, a restaurant—all dark. North led back into desert.
I turned east. I wish I hadn’t.

A block later the road forked. We veered left to a dead end. A whitewashed cinder-block building sat to our left, Smitty’s faintly visible under a yellow porch light. Across the street, a Sinclair station and a mobile home sat silent—closed for the night, or forever.

The place looked like a bar from another century.

We parked and stepped into the lean-to that shielded the door. A single yellow bulb flickered overhead, revealing empty kegs and the sour reek of stale beer and vomit. I opened the warped aluminum door and stepped into a haze that swallowed us whole. Doc bumped me from behind, nearly knocking me over.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke. I hadn’t seen a place allow smoking indoors in years. To the left, a pool table crouched beneath a flickering Schlitz light. By the window, a few old-timers in pork-pie hats played cards.

At the table, a man in an olive-drab army coat sighted his shot, cigarette glued to his lip. His opponent was short and wiry, with a red bandana taming a wild afro. Neither looked up as we entered.

Near the jukebox, a woman danced—or shuffled—alone. Long blonde hair hid her face, swaying over a billowy white blouse and flared jeans. A stitched yellow smiley face and a peace sign decorated her legs. She was barefoot, her feet gray with grime.

I shook my head and led Doc to the bar.

The bar was U-shaped, with what looked like a kitchen behind one end. Yellow light poured from a service window. A rack of chips leaned against the wall, and a beaded curtain breathed where a hallway led to the restrooms.

We took stools in the far corner near the chips. La Grange by ZZ Top blasted from the jukebox. I set my phone on the counter.

The bartender ignored us at first. Thickset, unshaven, greasy hair matted around a face ruled by a handlebar mustache. A filthy towel sagged from his shoulder; a faded Bad Company T-shirt strained over his gut. When he finally shuffled over, he wiped the counter in lazy, wet circles—pausing to stare at my phone like it might bite him.

“Look, guys,” he rasped, “we don’t want no trouble.”

“You’ll get no trouble from us,” I said. “Just something to eat—and maybe something to wash it down.”

His eyes flicked to the phone again. “What’s that?”

“My cell phone,” I said.

He edged back a half step. “What ya gents havin’?”

“Two shots of tequila and a couple Buds.”

“No Bud.”

“PBRs then. And menus.”

“Cook didn’t show,” he grunted. “My old lady’s back there makin’ burgers and fries. That’s it, and she ain’t happy ’bout it.”

“Fine by us.”

He left without another word. Doc watched him go. “Buzzkill,” he muttered.

Something about this bar was off. The music spun off 45-rpm records. The patrons dressed straight out of Easy Rider. And the bartender’s reaction to my phone—like he’d never seen one.

Buzzkill—Smitty, as I’d soon learn—brought our drinks. We toasted our fallen brother, Paul, and sat quietly a moment.

“Doc,” I said, “anything seem…weird to you?”

He shrugged. “Nope.”

I headed to the bathrooms. The hallway was dim. Between the men’s and ladies’ rooms hung a payphone—an actual payphone. My cell read No Service. Across from it, a corkboard sagged with notices.

One caught my eye:

Wedding Announcement — Paul Benoit & Judy Perzee — August 24, 1975.

Nineteen seventy-five. The sign looked brand new.

Other flyers mentioned a Fourth of July party and a church potluck—1975 again. A cold weight settled in my gut.

Back at the bar I waved Smitty over. “What’s today’s date?”

“June twenty-eighth.”

“What year?”

He scratched his head. “What year ya think it is?”

“Try me.”

“1975.”

Doc stood, towering. “No way, dude. It was 2025 when we left San Diego.”

Smitty raised both hands. “Ask anybody here—they’ll tell ya.”

The room tilted. The jukebox wailed Free Bird while my brain clawed for logic. Somehow, some way, we’d slipped back to 1975.

Doc thundered, “What did you put in that tequila?”

“Easy,” I said. “Let’s think.”

A bell dinged from the kitchen and Smitty scurried off. I half expected him to return with a shotgun. He came back with burgers instead. We ate in silence, chewing through disbelief.

The door creaked. Two bikers walked in—Hells Angels, judging by the cuts. My stomach knotted. The Angels and the Iron Order don’t exactly exchange Christmas cards.

Doc’s hand slid under his vest to the revolver. “Let’s see how this plays,” I whispered.

They approached. “These the guys, Smitty?” one asked. Smitty nodded.

The leader turned to us—tall, bearded, eyes like slate. “Where you boys from?”

“San Diego,” I said. “You?”

“Cave Creek. Name’s John. This here’s Jax.”

He studied our patches. “Never heard of the Iron Order.”

“New club,” I said. “Outta Jeffersonville, Indiana.”

He offered a hand. “Welcome, brother.”

Smitty nearly swallowed his mustache.

Doc and John fell into a twenty-minute discussion about Indian motorcycles. I nudged Doc. Time to go. The Angels seemed decent enough, but we didn’t belong here—not in this year.

Outside, under the sickly yellow lamp, our bikes looked like UFOs beside their choppers. “Back to the interstate,” I shouted over the engines. “If we catch Route 60, maybe we can ride out of…whatever this is.”

“You think we’re running?” Doc bellowed.

“Buddy, we’re running from 1975.”

We shot into the desert night.

At the interstate, the exit ramp was gone—only a crumbling overpass choked with weeds. We took a gravel road west until we hit Route 60. The landscape grew barren. The cars looked old. The air felt heavy, like we were breathing someone else’s past.

Then came the sandstorm.

It rose from the horizon like a wall—dense, howling, alive. We hit it at seventy. Sand filled my nose, my eyes, my teeth. I eased off the throttle, but the storm felt like it was pulling me through, waves of sound and grit folding over us.

Then, just as suddenly, we broke out. Clean air. Doc waited on the shoulder, caked in dust, goggles leaving two bright circles on his face. He looked ridiculous. I probably did too.

We pressed on. A mile later, an electronic billboard flashed a Coke ad, then a rodeo in Cave Creek—September 22, 2025.

We were back.

Epilogue

We attended Paul’s funeral the next day—a fellow Iron Order brother we’d never met. Our chapter had asked us to represent. The slideshow showed him in his cut beside his Harley, his semi-truck, his family. After the burial, his son rode the Harley away, pipes cracking the quiet. The license plate read Route 66 – 75.

Later, at home, I looked up club history. The Iron Order didn’t exist in 1975; it was founded in 2004. No wonder John hadn’t heard of us. And in 2006, at Sturgis, there’d been a fight. A Hells Angel named John Preston, sixty-nine, was killed in a bar brawl with a member of the Iron Order.

I never caught John’s last name back at Smitty’s. But you don’t suppose…