Marmalade: Orange Fluff on Two Wheels
Marmalade had standards. High ones. He was, after all, a former Grand Champion Persian with a coat that once caught stage lights like liquid fire. He did not do “cute.” He did not do “nice kitty.” And he most certainly did not do anything that involved being strapped into a basket or wearing a ridiculous helmet with ears.
Yet here he was.
Big Mike Callahan had made the mistake of mentioning, during one of the Rusty Nail’s slower nights, that the Iron Horsemen were taking a leisurely group ride up into the Blue Hills for a barbecue and some fresh air. Marmalade, lounging on his usual stool with imperial disdain, had flicked an ear and declared:
“If I am to suffer the indignity of associating with your noisy machines, I shall do so on my own terms. No basket. No leash. No baby talk.”
Big Mike, never one to back down from a challenge — especially when it came from an orange cat who acted like he owned half of Southie — had simply grinned through his beard.
“Deal. But you ride like the rest of us.”
So on a crisp Saturday morning, Marmalade found himself perched on the gas tank of Big Mike’s matte-black Fat Boy, front paws planted firmly, tail wrapped around the handlebars for balance, and a look of pure aristocratic suffering on his face. He had refused the tiny leather vest the prospects tried to put on him (“I will not be dressed like a common biker’s pet”), but he had allowed a small black bandana around his neck — purely for wind protection, he insisted.
The engine roared to life. Marmalade’s ears flattened, but he refused to flinch.
“Try not to fall off, fluff ball,” Big Mike rumbled, voice warm with amusement.
“I have fallen from greater heights than this contraption,” Marmalade replied dryly. “Drive.”
The pack rolled out — Big Mike in front with Marmalade riding shotgun, Daryl “Big D” on his Road King behind them, and a dozen other Iron Horsemen bringing up the rear. The thunder of engines echoed through Southie as they headed north toward the Blue Hills.
At first, Marmalade maintained his usual dignified silence. But as the road opened up and the wind rushed through his thick orange fur, something unexpected happened.
He liked it.
Not the noise — never the noise — but the sensation of speed, the way the world blurred past, the raw power vibrating beneath his paws. For the first time since his show-cat days, he felt something close to freedom. No stage lights. No judges. No grooming brushes. Just the road, the wind, and the low growl of the motorcycle.
Halfway up the winding hill road, Big Mike glanced down.
“You good back there?”
Marmalade’s eyes were half-closed, whiskers streaming back, tail flicking with something that might have been pleasure.
“Acceptable,” he said, voice barely carrying over the engine. “Do not slow down on my account.”
Big Mike laughed — a deep, rolling sound that shook the bike — and opened the throttle a little more.
When they reached the lookout point for the barbecue, the other riders parked and started unloading coolers. Marmalade jumped gracefully onto the seat, then onto the ground, shaking out his fur with theatrical dignity.
Daryl “Big D” crouched down, offering a massive hand for Marmalade to inspect.
“You looked like you were enjoying yourself up there, cat.”
Marmalade gave him a withering stare. “I was enduring it with grace. There is a difference.”
But when no one was looking, he allowed himself one small, secret stretch — claws out, back arched, tail high — and let out a tiny, satisfied rumble that no one would ever hear him admit to.
Later, as the sun dipped low and the smell of grilled meat filled the air, Marmalade found himself sitting on the warm hood of Big Mike’s truck, watching the bikers laugh and tell stories. For once, he didn’t complain about the noise or the smell or the lack of proper silver service.
Big Mike walked over with a small plate — a perfectly grilled piece of chicken, no sauce, just the way Marmalade preferred it.
“Thought you might want something that isn’t from a dumpster,” Mike said.
Marmalade accepted the offering with regal poise, taking a delicate bite.
“It is… tolerable,” he declared.
Mike chuckled. “High praise coming from you.”
As the evening wore on and the stars came out over the Blue Hills, Marmalade allowed himself to admit — only to himself — that perhaps motorcycles weren’t entirely beneath him.
He would never wear the vest.
He would never purr for anyone on command.
And he would certainly never do anything that could be described as “nice kitty stuff.”
But every once in a while, when the road called and the Iron Horsemen rode out, the former King of Cats might be found perched on the gas tank of a Fat Boy, wind in his fur, pretending he was merely enduring the experience.
And if his tail flicked with something suspiciously like joy when the engine roared and the world opened up ahead of him… well.
No one needed to know.
Not even Big Mike.
