How a Big Black Harley Became an Angel and Prevented a Murder!

By KAOS

The Time and Place Set the Stage

Back in 2012, I was driving trucks over the road and loving every chance I got to throw a
leg over my big black Fatboy Harley Davidson, “Samson.” Those long weeks over the road felt
like forever, so when I finally pulled into the driveway, every minute at home was anticipation
for the ride. The smell of Ana’s shampoo still on my jacket, the garage light catching the chrome
on Samson like he was waiting… those little things made coming home worth every mile,
especially when you got a 2009 Fatboy sitting quiet and a good woman just as excited as you are
to climb on the back and chase the open road.

That particular Saturday my wife, Ana, and I took a long ride together in the morning.
The kind of ride that clears everything out of your head. Desert sun on our backs, wind whipping
past our faces, and her arms wrapped around me tight. It was great! When we got home she was
worn out but still wanted to cook. She needed some rice for her recipe, so I told her I’d run up to
the store and pick some up. Little did I know that simple decision was about to crack my view of
the world wide open, showing me just how fragile and violent life really is.

I was living in Hesperia at the time. If you know that part of California, you know it’s
high desert country. The land there is dry, the roads are long and empty, and what they call a
“block” is damn near a quarter mile. I figured since I was already heading out, I might as well
squeeze in an extra ride on Samson. I jumped on, fired up that twin Cam 96, and rolled out for
what I thought was just a quick run for rice.

A Tragedy Unfolds in Real Time

I was on my way back home, turning onto my street, when I had to hit the brakes. There
was a crowd gathered out front of the local car repair shop at the corner of Main Street and
Tamarisk Avenue, the street I lived on. Mechanics and a few other folks were all standing in the
street, pointing and staring down the block. Something was happening a few hundred feet away.
I pulled up and had to take off my riding goggles to make it out.

A guy said there was a fight. I looked down that long desert block and at first it looked
like a bald-headed cholo in grey Dickies and a white wife-beater was beating the shit out of a
long-haired rock and roller type. But the closer I looked, the more it sank in and the long hair and
the screams registered—that wasn’t no dude getting beaten. It was a woman. A grown woman
getting her ass kicked, punched in the face, like he was trying to end her life right there.

One of the bystanders stated the obvious: “He’s gonna kill that woman.”
That was all it took. A switch flipped on inside me. I didn’t think about what could
happen—I thought about what would happen. I slammed Samson into gear and twisted the
throttle wide open, sending that big black Harley roaring down the street toward them. The twin
Cam-96 motor roared through the custom pipes. It was loud. The sound cut through the early
afternoon desert air like a battle call being answered. It was loud enough to snap that coward out
of his blood-rage. He stopped pounding on her, looked up, then ran for his Chevy Tahoe idling at
the scene.

A Beat Down and a Coward

By the time I rolled up, all I saw was a piece of shit trying to run from what he’d done.
She was screaming, “Please help me he is going to kill me!” I said, “No he isn’t!” As he jumped
into the Tahoe and took off north back toward the way I’d just come. But it was just moments
later that, out of nowhere, he flipped a U-turn and came barreling straight back at us. I was in the
middle of dropping my kickstand, ready to get off the bike and help this terrified woman, when I
heard that Tahoe’s V8 engine winding, tires screeching. I turned just in time to see that 2.5-ton
SUV coming right at us full speed.

At the last second I stabbed Samson in gear again, trying to pull his attention away from
her. I figured if he wanted to hit somebody, better it be me than her. He shot right past me,
almost clipping my rear wheel. Because I was between the street and her, I was enough of a
barrier to prevent him from getting to her. But my momentum almost sent me to the ground. I
gunned it more, to stay up on two, turned in the opposite direction, and shot up the street the way
he’d just come. I got the bike straightened out after a couple hundred feet, turned around, and
started heading back toward her when I saw him flipping another U-turn as well. Now he was
heading back toward her. My heart dropped into my stomach. He was going after her again, and
this time I was too far back to do a damn thing about it.

I watched in horror as that Tahoe bore down on her going at least thirty miles per hour.
She tried to move but couldn’t get away fast enough. For me, time slowed down. The truck hit
her hard, slinging her body through the air like a rag doll, twenty feet easily, slamming her down
near a phone pole. The sight of it still echoes in my mind to this day.

But he didn’t stop there—he wanted more. He pushed forward running her over as he
smashed into the pole and kept going. As he continued down the road, he barreled past me and as
he did, our eyes locked. There was nothing there. No remorse, just darkness. Blank, demon-like
eyes. I’ll never forget that look. Maybe I was the last person to ever look into them. I throttled my bike back to where she’d landed, skidded to a stop, and jumped off. She
was a crumpled mass lying on the ground, not moving. I was sure she was gone. But when I got
close, those bright Latina eyes were open, and alive.

The Aftermath

She was a beautiful Latina with long dark hair, but her clothes were torn and pulled down
from being run over. But she was tough, and a fighter. I ripped my shirt off and covered her,
telling her not to move, help was coming.

The first thing she asked me, in a weak voice, was where was her cell phone. It was in her
shorts pocket. I took the phone. She wanted me to call her Tio. I told her I would but to just stay
still. I was already dialing 911 on my own phone.

Another guy ran up—a bald white dude—and asked if she was still alive. I said yeah,
barely. He started calling 911 too. I knelt down beside her, took her hand in mine, and asked
where she was hurting. She whispered, “Everywhere… but I can’t move my legs.” That one hit
me hard. I have no medical background, but I knew that wasn’t a good sign. She kept begging
me to call her uncle. I promised I would while we waited for the ambulance.

The police and paramedics soon arrived, got her stabilized, and took her away. I came to
find out that when he ran her over, he paralyzed her from the waist down. Just like that. A man’s
rage and jealousy turned a woman’s entire life upside down.

Later that day, her family came by my house to pick up her phone. They wanted to know
what I’d seen. I told them everything I could. They were grateful I’d been there. When I asked
what started it, they said it was her daughter’s birthday party and he’d been drinking heavily and
had started fighting with her and others. I figured there had to be more to it, maybe drug use, because the look in that man’s eyes when he drove past me… there wasn’t nothing human left in
them. Just pure darkness.

Turns out he made the news that same night. Not long after he tried to murder his wife
and mother of his children, he drove that Tahoe off the Cajon Pass on the I-15 freeway and killed
himself in a fireball 150 feet below. Even in his last moments, he chose the cowardly way out.

Why Am I Telling This Story Fourteen Years Later?

Because I never lost touch with that woman. Her name is Reina Reyes. She is a mother, a
sister, a daughter, a niece. Her life changed forever over some alcohol and jealousy infused
delirium. But through everything, she always called me her angel on the big black Harley.

We Helped Save Each Other

A year or so later I was switching trucking jobs and got into some financial trouble. I was
looking at having to sell Samson. Somehow, Reina heard about it, probably on Facebook
because by that time we were FB friends. She reached out to me. She wanted me to meet up with
her and her new fiancé. I agreed because I was just glad she was still here to meet at all.

We met at a local Starbucks. She rolled up in a wheelchair. She had lost the use of her
legs, but her spirit was still strong. She was smiling. And her eyes were still as bright as ever.
She told me she’d heard about my problem with having to sell my bike and wanted to give me a
check for five thousand dollars to help me keep him. It was a thank you for being there that day.
I tried to turn it down. Told her I didn’t do enough. That I should’ve let him hit me. Maybe that
would’ve changed how everything played out. I’d carried that regret with me since the incident
happened. But she wouldn’t hear it. That day, she laid it out what really happened on the fateful day
and what had led up to the final catastrophic event.

When they left the party that day, he took a kitchen knife with him. You see he was
trying to get her alone and to a secondary location. He told her to get in the car and she complied
to keep anything crazy from popping off at her daughter’s birthday party. Once they were a
couple blocks away, he began to threaten her with the knife, taking experimental jabs at her.

Out of fear for her life, she jumped out of the moving vehicle, taking her chances with the
dry desert pavement. He pulled around, stopped, got out, and started beating her. That was about
the time the crowd formed hearing her screams for help. But no one moved to help her. That was
when I pulled around the corner on my bike and went into action. But what I didn’t know was
that while he was pounding on her, that long knife was still in his pocket. She later explained to
me that he was just about to start stabbing her when the roar of my Harley rolled up on them.

Samson changed everything. My bike’s engine roar interrupted his moment. It snapped
him back from the brink and kept him from finishing what he’d decided to do. That’s what she
told me that day at Starbucks. And that truth hit me head on like a Mack truck. Hearing that knife
part didn’t make me feel like a hero—it just made me cold all over again, knowing how close it
really was.

That day my Harley wasn’t just a motorcycle. Samson became the sound barrier that got
in the way of death. The thing that gave her a moment’s break and a fighting chance. Being
paralyzed was a high price to pay, but bleeding out from stab wounds on the dry desert dirt is a
much higher price.

The Future Holds the Gifts of Life

Reina and I are still friends to this day. Before I wrote this, I reached out to her and asked
if it was okay to tell the story as I remember it. She said, “let it flow.” So I let it go.
Now, when I see her posts on Facebook—watching her kids graduate high school and
college, seeing her holding her grandbabies—I feel good. Knowing that beautiful woman got to
live the life she was meant to live. And somehow, me and that big black Harley were part of
making sure that happened.

I don’t think I’m anybody’s angel. I just know that sometimes the moment comes down
to a split second decision. Sometimes all it takes is the loud roar of a strong motor and a bike
rider willing to ride into trouble instead of away from trouble. My Harley, Samson, got in the
way of the inevitable that day. And because of that, a mother got to raise her children, a niece got
to become a grandmother, and a life that almost ended in violence got to keep going to find new
accomplishments and achievements.

That’s how a big black Harley became an angel.