I was invited through a friend of a friend, who said it was OK if we
brought another friend along-just as long as they rode motorcycles. It was a
monthly gathering of a certain motorcycle club, an MC in New Jersey called the
Weekend Cowboys. They owned land in the middle of a corn field in Jersey, a far
cry from visions of the NJ Turnpike and Hoboken, and you were given directions
to find it. It wasn’t hidden, but wasn’t in plain view either. So the three of
us rode down, I was on my R90S, BH on his Dunstall 750 Café Racer, and Bouke on
his Yoshimura Z-1. Three fast bikes by any standard in 1974, but on this day
just another three bikes in the crowd. As we hooked up and met with the guy who
worked with BH and got us the invite, we were stopped at the gate by two rather
huge black men, holding a chain blocking our entrance. We had to show ID, they
weren’t the cops, and once Tuck was recognized, the three of us were admitted
with him. We were told to drive to the field, find a place to park, and get
something to eat. Now to a guy growing up around diners, the thought of lunch
in a corn field left little promise, but I was about to be pleasantly
surprised. And this one time invite was to change my attitude towards
motorcycles, and all who rode them. After a long ride up a dirt road, there was
in fact a field, a huge grassy area, with motorcycles parked as far as you
could see. Big Harleys, and Indians all decked out in shiny chrome, many with
custom paint. There were chopped Hondas, two stroke Kawasaki 500’s with
extended forks, and we almost felt naked among the personalized custom bikes.
But we were greeted just as friendly, and told to get something to eat, and come
watch the races. And the biker in colors, and of color, pointed us to a
semi-circle over 50 feet long of barbecue pits, the aroma intoxicating.
“Chicken or ribs?” the big black ladies asked, and filled our plates, adding
cole slaw, potato salad, and beans. We sat among others around tables, on
chairs, or just standing, as the crowd numbered in the hundreds. The food was
great, and we were encouraged to get dessert, after going back for seconds.
Hands and face sticky from BBQ, we dipped our hands in huge tubs of water,
splashed it on our faces to remove traces of sauce, and went over to the races.
Which was why we were invited...the food was just an added bonus.
The race was a 1/8 of a mile gravel strip, with an arroyo at the end, with
about a 6’ drop, that if you didn’t stop in time, you and your motorcycle would
disappear into. Two lanes were set up, and the action was hot. Men lined the
track laying down cash bets on lane 1 or lane 2, and after the race, which only
lasted few seconds, picked up their winnings and bet again. All kinds of
motorcycles, from dirt bikes, to even a nitro burning Harley, using an old 1
gallon gas can as a tank. A Z-1 with a knobbie rear tire, no leathers, no
helmets, and no rules other than don’t jump the starter flag, or you couldn’t
race any more that day. And none did. The action was too much for Bouke, so
letting the air out of his rear tire, he raced, and ended up winning. No
classes here, fastest bike was the fastest bike, you were challenged and raced,
and his final against the nitro Harley was incredible. No trophies handed out,
no umbrella girls, or podium. Just recognition from those there that day of
winning. After eating and spending a day among others who rode and enjoyed the
biker world. I must admit I helped pull more than one rider and bike out of the
ditch, and helped him check his bike over, then send him back to race again.
There were no losers that day, as all had a great time, and a precious memory
was made forever.
Did I mention the Weekend Cowboys were a black club? That among the
hundreds, there were only a handful of us white folk? That our color didn’t
matter, or even what we rode? That our common thread was that we rode? And I
remember seeing bikes that I had only heard about from the old guys who rode.
Various Harleys and Indians, Vincents, Royal Enfields, JAP’s, Triumph’s BSA’s,
Nortons, and some of the newest, 750 Hondas, Mach III Kawasakis, Z-1’s, and old
Yamahas. Even an old Suzuki X-6, the bike of Solo Suzuki fame. Some dressed in
colors, some in jeans and t shirts, even a few older couples dressed like they
just left church, which they probably did. We were a community of riders, call
us motorcyclists, bikers, or whatever-we all rode. Skin color or brand didn’t
matter, the common denominator was you rode, and an important lesson in life was
learned that day. The true brotherhood of bikers was revealed to me, and I was
a part of it. And to this day, I don’t care what you ride, skin color, or who
you ride with. We are all part of a great brotherhood, now if only the church
could get behind the true sense of brotherhood, imagine the changes that would
happen.
Juan Carlos Ortiz wrote a revolutionary book in the 1970’s called Call To
Discipleship. It was written about churches in Brazil, where he was from, and
how their differences kept them apart. Catholics didn’t like Presbyterians,
Baptists had too many rules,and Lutherans too many rituals. One day the spirit
of the Lord came upon him, and visiting other pastors found no agreement in
their commonality of Jesus Christ. But keeping true to the vision God gave him,
he soon saw changes, as those who believed in Jesus Christ rallied together, and
changes in lives, neighborhoods, and gangs all changed when Jesus entered. It
wasn’t a social movement, but people became more social, it wasn’t a life style
movement although lives were changed. It was led by the spirit, and his book
based on his testimony has influenced many today, including a young Christian,
fresh from the Weekend Cowboys party. I had seen there was no color barriers
among riders, and desired the same from my church. My church friends were
ex-hookers, drug dealers, bikers, businessmen, students, and housewives who all
had Jesus in common, and nothing else mattered. When we ate, all were invited.
No dues to pay, bring what you could to share with others. We had a commonism,
as spoke of in Acts, where all needs were being met, not a Communism where all
were equal and gave it all up. We shared, and we were all blessed, and were a
great witness and testimony of what the church should be. All were and are
welcome...come as you are, the invite from Jesus. Who would have thought a
group of bikers would be my first example of true brotherhood?
Does your church welcome all, or are there laws and rules to come in?
Jesus accepts you as you are, if your church doesn’t maybe it is time to leave
your prejudices behind, and find a new church. Where you can be all Jesus wants
you to be. To enjoy fullness and blessings in the spirit. But pray for the
church too, we all need Jesus, and we were all strangers once, and he took us
all in. Greater love has no man, no biker, no mother, or no pastor. Greater
love is what Jesus is...let him into your life today and enjoy freedom. Let his
call to discipleship be heard wherever you are, his great commandment, make
disciples. Disciple the new believers, go out among the lost, and show love to
the unlovely. For one afternoon in a New Jersey cornfield Cowboys rode
Indians. Indians rode among Hondas, and Kawasakis raced Harleys. We ate
together, rode together, raced together, and pulled each other out of the
ditch-together. We were one in the spirit of motorcycles, imagine what we can
do when we become one in the spirit of Jesus Christ. It took an invite to get
in, but once we were in we were considered equals. Consider the invite to know
Jesus today. We were all once sinners, become equal with him and be saved by
grace. A lesson on how to live from the brotherhood of bikers, found in Jesus
Christ. In a perfect world, we will all know Jesus. Enjoy the ride.
love with compassion,
Mike
matthew25biker.blogspot.com