riding alone, but never lonely, volume 1, part 3

As the truck stops ran further south and east, I thought Texas would never end. Ride from Jersey to Florida, and that same distance still has you riding across Texas. We were spending the night with friends of my new found friend John in Baytown, just outside of Houston. This couple had been in Israel living on a kibbutz, and their stories were interesting. But interest turned sour when the party continued after they went to bed, and the sisters next door invited us over. And my emotions went further south when one pulled a gun on me, and stuck it on my nose! She thought it was funny, I left-quickly. The uncomfortable sofa next door felt safe that night. This yellow rose of Texas was not the girl for me.

The next afternoon found us in New Orleans, with the French Quarter calling us. It was even hotter there, the humidity higher, and after the aridness of the desert southwest, this was misery. Add in the van with no AC, and think of a sauna bath on wheels, we no break for 300 miles. Even the giant bugs seemed tired. But we did the French Quarter, enjoyed Preservation Hall, even though we were shoulder to shoulder in the heat, but were overall disappointed with the French Quarter. Some of the bars, topless and bottomless, made Vegas seem tame, and one Hurricane was enough to tell us it was time to go. Bourbon Street turned into a big disappointment for us. No argument or beignets, we were off to Mississippi, and one state closer to home. We had seen life, although it was low, and now things that at one time I would have engaged in, now I found offensive. Was God changing my heart without telling me? Jackson, Mississippi found us on I-20, and after dark. In these pre-interstate completion days, there wasn’t a fast food restaurant on every corner, particularly in the south after hours. So seeing a Burger King open, we headed for the drive thru-the dining room was closed. The black girl was super friendly, said they were closed, but since we were so hungry, as we had pleaded, she told us to wait, and then came back handing us two big bags of Whoppers and fries-no charge. It was end of the day, and would be tossed out anyway, my first taste of Southern hospitality, and I still love the south today.

We had been sleeping in the van, and very tired, and very sweaty, we pulled into Birmingham, got lost when the Interstate ended, ate a BBQ buffet, then headed north on I-81. Home was within a thousand miles, and somewhere between wanting to get home and not wanting the trip to end, the mood became somber. The trip home is never filled with as much excitement as it is when starting out. After all the humidity, an afternoon of rain in the Shenandoah Valley cooled things off nicely. The views awesome, but Skyline Drive would have to wait. Amazing how high humidity is so uncomfortable, but rain which is 100% humidity can be so cooling and comfortable. But we were within a day’s ride of home, and distances that at one time had seemed impossible, now were no big deal. 500-600 mile days were no big deal, even today. The van had had no problems, other than Brennan falling off the roof when asleep in San Felipe and the right mirror breaking his fall. A miracle had occurred that I never knew of, God had healed my engine. So with thoughts of my new found God, I dropped John off at his house, and headed the last half hour to home. With some unexpected surprises...

My parents never go anywhere, maybe a morning of golf for my dad, or a trip to the A&P for my mother, but when I arrived home that afternoon, the only ones to greet me were their cats. I was living there, having moved back so I could afford the trip, and the empty house gave me time to reflect. How was I to explain this trip of a lifetime and the fact I was now Born Again? The trip descriptions would later come, but how do you describe an infinite God in finite terms? And when I tried, they thought it was just another California fad. But my life was to change drastically in the next 90 days, as God began to work in my life. There would be a huge welcome home party at John’s, friends that weren’t ready to receive a new and changed Mike, and an old girl friend who was. Work was even different, as I became indifferent to what used to be important. No BH around anymore, and when old friends came by, they were offended by my Bible, and that I was reading it. I still wasn’t sure what was going on inside of me, just that it was wonderful. But I was also very alone, as I knew no other Christians, and still didn’t know to pray. John was 3200 miles away, and we would talk sometimes, he has a WATS line at work. But God knew then and still knows today what we need before we ask, and soon miracles were abounding. I had lived my dream of driving coast to coast, but was still waiting for the chance to do it on my motorcycle. But two parties were yet to happen before that dream would be fulfilled. And everything that I thought was valuable to me was changing.

My first order of business was getting my motor back from Butler and Smith, the BMW importers. Who seemed to have lost it, then found it in a dumpster. To be retrieved later by an employee trying to steal it. But back home, all I had to do was get it down the stairs from my bedroom upstairs, so Road Aid Frank could install it, and it ran! I had my bike back, and didn’t realize how much I had missed riding. It is one thing when you choose not to ride, another when you can’t. But the van had turned into just what I needed, so no hard feelings. My next adventure had me going to the Welcome Home party at John’s parent’s house. F. Scott Fitzgerald was right, the rich are different, and I didn’t know his parents were. As I rolled up to their home, I was to confirm that for myself. I was riding alone, but never lonely. And the party was just beginning...

to be contined,

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

riding alone, but never lonely volume 1, part 2

I had made it, I was in California! I was living my dream-almost. But that was OK, I was here. And the Beach Boy lyrics were right, from cars to California girls, So Cal is different. Nobody walks in LA, except to the beach, like I did, a whole three blocks. Even the ugliest Toyota wore custom wheels, adults on bikes, and motorcycles. With custom paint, and loud pipes-neither of them would work in Jersey. Too many cops there, here it was cool. But the one thing missing was my R90S-I had lived my dream in a van! And with the great weather, here people went outside because of it, not make excuses for it and stay in, I was cage bound. But since no one I was with rode, it wasn’t so bad. But I missed riding, and I longed for a helmetless ride along the beach...but that would have to wait. Something was missing, and it was more than to wheels.

I had spent the first few days at the beach, and was adapting quite well. I had even eaten a dolphin free tuna sandwich with sprouts on it, and was becoming laid back, must be the lifestyle. And the beach. But spending days alone, I explored on my own, until Brennan and John got home from work, and the day began over again. John ran every night on the beach after dark, and one night I ran with him. Now California was a fly trap of sorts for weirdos and religion-I had run past Synanon, and the shaved heads scared me, this cult was dangerous too I was to learn. Moonies were around, as were Christians singing about Jesus, and telling you how He loved you. But just one walk down the Venice boardwalk was enough for even Toto to tell you weren’t in Kansas anymore. So when John started to tell me about Jesus one night while wiping sand from our feet after a run, I didn’t want to hear it. And when I told him if he kept it up, I would put him in the hospital, he got quiet. But yet a seed had been planted, I just didn’t know it, yet. The Late, Great Planet Earth was a best seller, and many were talking about it. Hal Lindsay would help shape a generation of new Christians with it, so when John offered me his copy, I took it to the beach the next day and read it. It took all day, a-h-h the distractions, but it raised many questions, and I started to ask John. So he invited me to a Bible study, and I said yes. Me at a Bible study? Even Brennan went reluctantly. And they talked about Jesus and Hal’s book. And they seemed normal enough, and I listened. I even made eye contact with this beautiful girl, we smiled back and forth at each other, and she talked about Jesus. When John saw our flirting, he told me back off-she was a Christian and wasn’t interested in what I was, but I assured him, I was up to the challenge. So after they prayed, and it broke up, she walked across the room to me, and threw her arms around me. See John! And then with a big hug exclaimed, “Isn’t Jesus wonderful!” A-H-H! John was right, and the next day based on her encouragement, and the hope of seeing her again, I took a Bible to the beach and read it. Trying to use it to pick up girls! A new pick up line that didn’t work. But something else was working inside me, and I decided to try this Jesus thing. Still not sure what it was about, I saw something different in Christians that I didn’t have, and I wanted it. So I told God, I‘ll check you out, but I am still going to party and sleep around. His OK answer surprised me, but now I found I didn’t want to. What was going on?

Through a friend Brennan worked with, I met John Vogt, another Jersey boy who had come out in a friend’s van, and decided to spend the summer before going back and starting his career with GM. We became good friends, his answer to everything was “outrageous,” and we had some outrageous times together. He also would ride back with me, halving the cost of the trip back. But as much as we got along, I couldn’t talk to him about Jesus, he thought the religion end was cool, but when Jesus came up, lost interest. So I didn’t, and although now I had someone to travel with, I wasn’t alone, but was lonely.

It was time to start the trip back, and we would stop in San Francisco and see BH on the way, a 1200 mile detour, but only 4 inches on the map. BH’s dad had retired, and was a bishop in the Episcopalian church-here was a man who I could talk to about Jesus. But he blew me off, he knew the old Mike too well, or maybe just didn’t care. His type was the reason I didn’t go to church anyway. Deterred, but not without hope I pressed on. After spending a day in SF, it was onto Yosemite, where you don’t feed the bears, as a van next to me learned. He left food out, and we awoke to a blood curdling scream when the bear took the side of his van off. Such beauty I had never seen in Yosemite, it made our next stop in Grand Canyon seem like just a big hole in the ground. Carlsbad Caverns was cool, all that neat stuff underground, and we set off for Texas. We would stay with some friends of John in Houston. My trip was 3/4 over and I had seen America, been to Mexico, San Felipe, realized my dream of driving to California cross country, and became a Born Again Christian. A lot for any trip, but that was only three weeks of it. I looked at the world differently, and now with a passenger to to talk to, and a Bible to read, I still didn’t know to pray. I was lonely, alone, not knowing that the Holy spirit that had been with me, was now in me.

And without John in Santa Monica to ask questions to, my mind wandered. I didn’t know at the time that bad company corrupts good morals, or that I had been bad company. But I was glad for my new friend and travel partner. It was a long trip across Texas in a van with no AC, and the heat at 100 degrees was not the only thing that was hot, as I was to find out. California was as far behind me as Jersey was ahead of me, where a job, career, family , and my motorcycle all awaited me. But I still had yet to ride cross country on it, the last part of the dream to yet be fulfilled. But that was coming, in an unexpected way, and my life was to change forever in ways I never knew.

I was saved! Now, what was I going to do?

to be continued.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

riding alone, but never lonely

This is one of those stories that requires telling another story first, just so the real story makes sense. So hang on as I thank you for your indulgence. At age 21, I had goals, but only one dream. I wanted to ride my motorcycle across country to California from New Jersey. A dream of many, I was ready to do it, when tragedy struck. The Wildman was over, and sitting on my R90S, when he pushed the starter button, and it made a horrible noise. Then nothing. As it turned out later to be, the bolts had sheared off the flywheel on the German’s finest road bike, leaving me without a motorcycle, and crushing my dream. But I had also bought a custom Chevy van from Garry Brown, it was his final exam for his electrical engineering degree from Bucknell. It had two stereos, two layers of shag carpet, rosewood paneling, and Lake pipes. Yes, they roared. And it sat on the biggest Wide Oval radials, LR-78x15, mounted on American racing mag wheels. Cool all the way, it had twice as many wheels, and would have to do. But tragedy almost struck again, as a few days before I was to leave, Road Aid Frank, our friend and mechanic, found an engine knock. And told me the engine was no good, cancel the trip. Determined, aka stupid though I took off, noise and all, for four weeks to find America, just not on two wheels. And alone, as BH took off on his CB750 a few hours earlier, although we would later connect in San Francisco. I was about to test all of the knowledge my parents and Scotch Plains Public Schools had given me...I was of to realize my dream.

It has been said that “man plans, and God laughs,” and what we call detours or plan B are really His plan. Which in my pre-Christ state I didn’t know, but looking back God is always with us, even when not with Him. I had made it all the way to Pennsylvania, less than 100 miles that first afternoon, when the van died. It had done it before, the Judson Supercharger, an ignition booster got hot, and would restart when it cooled off, the next morning, so my first night out was spent along I-80 on the shoulder. But it restarted when cool the next morning, so I got off, in the middle of nowhere, to remove it. Now I can’t tell you if they were Hillbillies, but they were rednecked, and gave this long hair a hard time as I did the repairs. As they sat 10 feet from me, spitting tobacco at my feet, and commenting “ain’t she cute,” I kept a breaker bar in my back pocket-just in case. But with repairs completed, I was on my way with no further problems, or engine noises.

My plan was to follow the route my Dad had taken with the Boy Scouts to Philmont Ranch in 1967, but cutting off in Denver for the Golden State. So going past the Indianapolis Speedway, through Chicago, across beautiful Wisconsin, I travelled the interstates as much as possible. Even spent the night in front of a combination gas station/bowling alley, one bay for each, off I-90 in Minnesota. The beauty of Mount Rushmore, seeing Wall Drug, and the car museum in Murdo made me appreciate South Dakota, and even a thunderstorm in Wyoming didn’t faze me, I was going to California. But at a rest stop outside of Denver, I met a man, Jessie O’Leary, on a BMW, and we got high in my van together. He was riding my dream, and going to teach on an Indian reservation in New Mexico, shades of Billy Jack. We parted, stoned, and not knowing that we would meet the next summer in Albuquerque, I was selling motorcycles, and he was in for service. And shocked when I refused to get high, and listened intently as I shared my new life in Jesus with him. Again, God laughs, with us this time.

After making it over the Rockies on old Highway 6, I-70 was still a dream in many places, and wondering if the van would make it, Jersey boys don’t know about altitude and its effects, I made it to Green River,Utah, where I met another man, trying to live his dream. He was sitting among the trees in this old style rest stop, and had been hitchhiking to California from Virginia. The night before I met him, he had been beaten and robbed, I found him bruised, bloodied, and hungry. Feeding him all the food I had, peanut butter, and chips, and Coors, he told me his name was Howard Stephenson, but took the road name of Mac. And when I heard of his dream of California, I offered him a ride, for free, since he had no way to pay for the trip. But he had an aunt in Las Vegas, which was on the way, and if we could stop, she would help him out. His Aunt June, as it turned out was part owner of the Golden Nugget, and was glad to see her nephew, he had run away and the family had lost all communication with him. She fed us, gave me a stack of chips, which I quickly turned into defeat, and with some cash in hand, we set out across the desert in the middle of the night for LA. For the few hours I was in Vegas, it was as raunchy as I was, from the sex, the bars, and the debauchery. Even as much of a low life as I was, this place was even lower. And I was glad to leave.

The next morning found us in rush hour traffic on the 10 going into Santa Monica. I was going to spend two weeks with Brennan, a friend since 5, who still tells how I hit him over the head with a mayonaise jar when he was 5. What was my mother thinking letting me loose with a mayo jar in tow? Today I can see the headlines, maybe that is why they are plastic today. Arriving, Mac called his dad, an Air Force Colonel, who agreed to send him $400 to Brennan’s address, addressed to me, in care of his son-and he didn’t know any of us, including his son it seems. But the check arrived, Mac split, and I was in LA. With only the warning from Brennan that his room mate was a Christian and would talk about Jesus. But that would have to wait. All the visions about beaches, girls, bikinis, hot rods, and summer instilled in me by the Beach Boys was tomorrow’s agenda. I was 21, thought I knew it all, was about to live my dream, and nothing or no one was going to change that. Again man plans, and God laughs. For the next day my whole life would change...I thought I had been riding alone, but I was never lonely.

to be continued.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

many are called, few are riders

I have been riding motorcycles on the street legally now for over 42 years, no need interrupting my reputation by discussion of pre-license escapades. And being a first generation rider in my family, my parents hated them, they drove Ramblers, I have passed this love for riding onto both my sons and my wife, along with countless others who today enjoy the freedom of the wind in their face because they took a chance and now ride. But not everyone should ride, an opinion I didn’t share until yesterday. I still think in a perfect world we all should ride, but have come to realize some shouldn’t. Not because they aren’t cool, which they are not, but because just their appearance on a motorcycle can be a threat to the freedom we enjoy. One guy still only drives 55 on the freeways, thinking he is sending out a positive message about God, while another strictly sees it as cheap transportation. Both making a statement about riding without even having ridden. And it seems I follow after these types, who after their wives say “NO” to their wanting to ride, become hen pecked about all things in regards to personal decisions. Now I consider my wife in most decisions, she tends to be smarter than me, but I have freedom in her, and with her, something these other men don’t. Let’s hear a condescending “Yes, dear,” from those of you who know the type, or are the type. One look in your garage will tell us what type of man you are.

Today I see many types associated with riding motorcycles. The first got a taste early, and quit after trying it, bowing to social or family pressures, like above. Another rides for a while despite the negative press from the same, but caves in to it when they have a family, “you shouldn’t ride when you are raising children,” taking them away from a #1 family activity and leaving them open to the temptation of drugs. No better high than riding. Finding that riding was less dangerous, and cheaper than the costs involved with letting them hang out after school or weekends and not riding. If you don’t let your kids try riding, someone else will offer them something more dangerous. Also today many who have left riding are coming back to it, and enjoying it more, “why did I ever leave it?” being heard. Yet some of us heard the call, and gave into it. Despite the warnings, we ride, and enjoy life. We travel, meet friends, and even evangelize others to join in, and we do it within and without our families. I am blessed to do it with both. So be careful ladies, next time you condemn riding, especially women who do, my wife and her friends may be the ones in the leather jacket next to you. We apologize now for the chance to let you express your freedom of driving an SUV, cell phone in hands, with your kids glued to the DVD screens. And you’re telling us motorcycles are dangerous?

In the parable of the seed, Jesus tells of seed scattered, and the ground it fell on. The seed being the gospel, some hit hard ground, and was rejected, sometimes without even considering Him. “Him, Joe’s kid, a savior?” And they not only miss life on earth, but life after also. Some seed fell on good ground, and grew for a while, then the weeds grew and overtook it. Jesus was Lord for a season, then the pressures of the world won out. Too many succumb to this, and only a few return. But some take the seed, and water it, nourish it, and watch it grow. It becomes the central part of life, and their life, and enjoy a full life. Not perfect, but headed towards perfection. They have the same problems as the first two, but handle them different. They have a full life, and pass it on to others. They ride the ride of their life in Jesus, and never look back when doubters or the trendy advise them to quit. They realize they are living in freedom, a freedom to make their own decisions, to raise their kids the same way, and live life to its fullest. We call them Christians, because they have the life of Christ inside them, a choice they made themselves. Their choice to live in freedom, sometimes reflected in their choice to ride. And passing it on to their kids and grandkids...

Today I turned 59, and I see too many my age who are looking forward to retirement with no dreams of what to do. They once dreamt when younger, but gave in to all the warnings. The never went swimming right after eating. They never tried riding, and sadly never tired Jesus. To them, I would like to offer the following advice. Think about it and pray about. What are you waiting for? After you’re dead is no time to take action. Something to consider today, whether from your dangerous perch on the sofa, or from behind the safety of your handlebars. Freedom is available today, NOW! It has a name, Jesus, and this somebody is the something you are looking for. Although it is true, not all should ride, we all need Jesus. Many are called, few are chosen.

And for you political types, there are no recorded instances of terrorist activity among motorcyclists. Join in the battle against terror today-RIDE!

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

motorcycles, boring?

One of the side effects of having MMD, Multiple Motorcycle Disorder, is that they don’t get ridden very much. Add in the additional rides from Triumph’s Press Fleet, and I ride a lot of miles, just not on any particular bike. And while sitting in the garage the other day, I noticed how the Tiger seemed lonely, bored to just be sitting. Our regular touring mount, she has seen 48 states and over 80,000 miles in her first five years, last year when our vacation got cut short by my life flight ride, she had to be trailered back to So Cal. The irony in this is that next to her in the garage is the GS 1000, which last year I put more miles on than the Tiger, adding to her 25,000! And just looking at this thoroughbred wanting to run, it seemed that she was bored, so many roads, yet here I sit in the barn. So I promise to get out and ride her more-soon, ending her boredom of freedom from the road, and mine too. But it made me think, the Tiger seemed bored, but it isn’t a boring motorcycle, is there such a thing? Consider if you would, these three examples...Born to be boring...

A few years back I was invited to ride in a coronation at a private school, during their graduation they invited those who rode to give rides to the graduates along a parade route, a big semi-circle. I had a Speed Triple, Intense orange that day, and among the Harley crowd it stuck out, but not as much as two bling bikes, so overdone as to get attention-try turning away next time you hear brakes squeal, that kind of attention. Chrome everywhere, these trailer queens, the bikes, rode a few laps, when both started to smoke from overheating. Then pulled over and parked, unable to be ridden, and no one went to see why. These BLING! disasters were boring, even to look at, let alone not being able to be ridden. So pathetic I almost felt sorry for them, as they loaded them back in their pickups, BORING!

Yeas ago rotary engines were to be the answer to new emission laws, Yamaha and Norton experimented, Norton even produced some for police work in Europe. But Suzuki took the bold step and put one into production. It’s performance figures seemed good, styling was questionable the first year, but it was boring to ride. Where is the excitement of two wheels? Nothing happened via the exhaust note-it whirred! Remember the Mazda commercials? Back off the gas, it kept going-soundless. If possible to make a soul less motorcycle, they had succeeded. RIP-more famous in death, than when ridden in life. And a few years ago, when the Japanese were trying to reinvent the cruisers, as they had performance in the 60’s, a Hessian and I looked at a Yamaha on display at a IMF show in Long Beach. Almost speechless, and embarrassed, I opened the conversation with “You know, if you had one of these, you’d be a real biker, too.” And at that point he stuck out his hand, introduced himself as Sam and we talked motorcycles, for almost 20 minutes. And how far it had come, yet how far it has fallen just looking at this boring custom. A couple of guys who really ride, almost put to sleep by some committee in Japan’s idea of what a motorcycle should be. If two wheels stir the soul, this bike shouted for a pickup to ride home in.

Add any electric bike, sorry these are really two wheeled golf carts, and you find me bored, because they are boring. Electric may work OK on your toothbrush, drill, or golf cart, but the heart of a motorcycle beats best to a 2 or 4-stroke beat. Boring, wake me when it’s over. But how will I know if it’s boring? Erase the bikini babes, still interested?

Now one thing I have never heard described as boring is the gospel. If any man led an exciting life, it was Jesus. And we can lead the same kind of exciting life if we follow Him. Yet why in the past have I fallen asleep in church, bored out of my mind? One example springs to mind, when attending a funeral for a friend a few years back. This pastor spent over an hour telling the gospel, the same gospel that Billy Graham can share in 10-15 minutes and see a crowd saved, and the same gospel God made simple so I could get it. Yet this man, and sadly others I have endured, seem to think they must fill all of the hour, even while thinking, “I have their attention, I’m not letting them go.” And so many find church boring because of them, not because of the gospel. The same gospel that Jesus promises “a life of abundance,” can be put to sleep by some overbearing speaker. So I find I try to trim my gospel to 2-5 minutes, the attention span of a 5 year old. If they can get it, so can I. Can you? The life of a Christian should be exciting, new mercies every morning, not the same old, rote religion, which, by the way, Jesus warned about. Spontaneous life in Christ, always new and exciting, but sometimes dumbed down by religion. And then having to substitute plans, programs, and processes to keep the flock interested, but not always fed.

Ask Jesus for some excitement in your life today. And be ready. It may be simply answering a question about Him, or sharing a testimony. Or watching as someone you pray for is healed. Or going to a Wednesday night service and being invigorated. But God knows, and isn’t bored with you, so why be bored with Him? Too much BLING!? Get back to the basics. Too much pastor and not enough Jesus? Ask God and He will direct you to a fellowship where you can be fed. Alternative Jesus? Get out now! Most of the Bible is filled with warnings about false teachers. Seek Jesus today for that abundant life. Be bored no more! Hear the sound of the gospel in your life!

Without Jesus you have no good news. You have lies or a substitute savior. Don’t be embarrassed by the gospel, live it. Base it on Him instead of religion, and you won’t be embarrassed, or bored. And let no one say to you, “ you know if you had the truth, you too could be a real Christian.”

If your religion is slower than your ride, maybe it is time to change. No boredom in heaven, why BLING when you can sing! I can’t wait to hear about your next ride. And please, no neon lighted bikes.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

passion or obsession

While attending the Motte Farm Car Show I got to visit with two men who both had red 1972 MGB’s. Joining in the conversation, I had a butterscotch 72 Midget, Theresa also had a 72 Midget, and we had a 1980 B, the last year, I was instantly welcomed into the conversation. One car had been customized, things we would have done if it was ours when we were young. He had the Mini-lite wheels, been lowered a bit, and other subtle touches that a non-MG owner would not notice or appreciate. But they both were passionate about their cars, and had a good attitude towards them. For among the other over restored sometimes we will find claims of the only one, or 1 of 10 ever made, showing off their exclusivity. Exacerbated by their low miles from not driving it. The everyday driver, had a sign on it, “1 of 550,000 produced!” Gotta love it, and they knew their product, and had fun driving them. My kind of car guys, and after telling British car jokes, and mourning the passing of the Brit sport cars in society, a void readily filled by the Japanese with reliable “sporty cars,”we left, them discussing a place the one knew to get a new tonneau cover. Car guys, with a soft spot in their head for the British...maybe all the parts falling off their cars weren’t of the finest British quality? But these guys were passionate about MG’s, and loved them, but were real in their approach. And drove them just to show it...sharing stories and info with each other, just in case they were the one on the side of the road next...

I also talked with another man, nice guy, who had an original 1957 Chevy Bel Air 4-door sedan, 52,000 original miles, with factory air still in the unused spare tire. It was spotless, a view back to 1957 and what the cars really looked like. Matador red, too. And with a plethora of 55-57 Chevy parts available, his was as is from the factory. He had researched its history, and showed me all the things repaired over the years. How the engine was still original, even wanted me to climb under and look to see, I passed. He was passionate about it as were the MGB guys, but then went off into another dimension. In order to keep all the numbers original, he had the master cylinder removed and replaced, even having the original plate from the old installed on the new, so the numbers matched. At that point it was an obsession, and things that we would not care about, just repair, to him had become an obsession. He loved the car, but the car owned him. As it had the previous owners. I can only thank them for their obsession so I could enjoy it, maybe more than he did. At least he drove it, sparingly.

We all get obsessed by things, and on my last Torches ride, 2 young guys on new Harleys, were planning on stopping at every HD store across the US. While we planned the next day’s route, they checked out the route for Harley dealers. Sometimes leaving early, and arriving late and missing out, but they got their shirts. And also new chrome, a new seat, and any thing else graced with the Bar and Shield along the way. Obsessed, maybe. Just maybe though a result of Harley carefully putting their stores by a freeway exit. But they had fun, hope they had as much fun as we did. Wasn’t the ride all about 911? Their trip photos would be different than ours. Did they ever thank HD for their forethought of putting so many dealers by the freeway exits, just for them?

When I first got saved, I still partied-a lot. But no matter how hung over, or high, I still would make myself read a chapter of the Bible every night before passing out. I was obsessed with it, just not out while partying. I had told God I would try this Jesus stuff out, but that I would still party, and sleep around. His answer may surprise you, it did me. “OK.” And so I did, until my heart towards Him started changing. Soon I didn’t want to, and began reading my Bible sober. Love will do that, rules won’t. My friends changed-they didn’t want me around, when it was really me that was changing. And as I got closer to God, I wanted to please Him, because I love Him, not out of fear of retribution, or thinking it kept me saved. We had a relationship, and we would visit and talk. And soon the things of old passed away, well most of them, and Jesus Christ was truly Lord of my life. But I did it His way, for our ways still lead to death and disappointment. I had been obsessed with doing good, now I had a passion for Jesus-much different. For just like the woman at the well, whom Jesus told “go and sin no more,” He knew she would, and I would and still do. But with a new heart,we saw things differently, and wanted to please Him. He actually became Lord when I started doing the things He wanted-His will be done. And so it continues today...Jesus the same as ever, me in a constant growth mode. Maturity we call, not realizing that when fully matured, we die, just like any seed. And then our blessed hope of heaven becomes reality. Not earned, but given, by grace as a gift. What gift can you earn that is more valuable?

So I try to live my life as the MG guys, enjoying it and also knowing its limitations. Enjoying what I have for what it is, but also approaching God in the same way. Putting Him first, passionately. Not obsessing over rules and religion, but enjoying the freedom in the spirit. So like the MG guys, whether broken down in the rain with the top leaking, where the oil spot marks where I last parked, and with always a project to do, I press on. Knowing Jesus loves me as I am, and enjoying the gift. Not an original, but a changed man, a new creature in Christ. The old things passed away. New parts, with new testimonies, even a scar to show where He has been. The way He wants it, a passion not an obsession. I can’t keep up, and He doesn’t set pace so I can’t. And waits for me where I lag or fall. It’s called grace...sometimes best learned in a storm or on the side of the road.

And to those of you who feel I obsess over Triumphs, I don’t. I also own a Suzuki that I rode this weekend. Of course I wore my Triumph shirt...some habits just die hard after all.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

how many sides does a circle have?

Lines have more of an impact on our daily lives than we give them credit for. I have waited my turn to talk on our party line, enjoyed the hemline of mini-skirts, and grimaced as my waistline expanded. I have been next in line for promotion, watched Over the Line,and signed on the dotted line to buy a home. I have watched balls hit the foul pole, a vertical extension of the foul line, although they are in fair territory, and seen touchdowns denied for not crossing the goal line. I have seen old people with lines on their faces, and lines from the tracks of their tears. I have had a great credit line, heard great opening lines, and been slapped when trying to use both. I have tried unsuccessfully to stay within the lines, to color inside the lines, and don’t cross over the double yellow line. I have waited in lines to buy tickets, stood in line to return items, and never have been in a police line up. I have been in baseball line ups, lined up for kickball, and lined up by height or in alphabetical order. I have been in unemployment lines, been asked what line of work I was in, and admired the lines of a classic Corvette. I have seen battles over fence lines, been told I was out of line, and looked for imaginary lines. I have crossed state lines, county lines, and border lines. I have seen the sun disappear behind the horizon, another line, and come up again, over another line. I have been put on hold while on line, bought things on line, and heard the song “Wichita Lineman,” is he still on the line? I have read line after line of articles, been sold a line of goods, and sold a line of goods. I will tear along the dotted line, have seen a cartoon with Terralong the dotted lion, and been in gas lines. I have seen curvy lines, straight lines, and dotted lines, all different, yet all lines. You may have your own list, but be assured, lines are a part of our lives we don’t give them enough credit for.

MY HD TV has more lines than the old black and white sets, been told to toe the line when it comes to rules, and been out of line when I didn’t. I have cut in line at high school cafeterias, been thrown out of line for the same, and gone to the end of the line because of it. I have seen marriages, relationships, and lives at the end of the line, and been first in line-if you just reverse the order to back to front. I watch as scanners read lines to tell me the cost of a product, and stand in return lines when I wish I hadn’t bought the same thing. I have watched at Costco as people form their own lines, and then get upset when someone follows the arrows and starts their own line-per the rules. So it is with lines...

I have crossed over state lines, and been going 75 mph safely, only to see State Police pulling cars over for the same speed when their state laws are only 65 mph. I have been in different homes, where you don’t wear shoes on their carpet-keep them on and you have crossed over their line. But it is the imaginary lines that continue to fascinate me. When you cross from New Mexico into Colorado, it goes from brown to green, you can see the line. Same with yards absent of a fence, one neighbor’s yard being separated by a line where they stop cutting. Or a fence line that separates the two, how can it be on both sides at once? And as lines form boundaries, when you cross them you are now under the jurisdiction of the new territory. When visiting prisoners in jail, you are under the same rules as them, you lose freedom as you enter, they don’t gain it because you are there. Crossing into another state the police don’t care about the previous state’s laws, you are under theirs now. Even baseball has ground rules for each park, still three outs and nine innings, but they can have an impact on how you get there. How many imaginary backs have been broken from stepping on the cracks, the lines of a sidewalk? So it seems although lines may keep some out, while it keeps others in, lines form a boundary, a way of telling where we are, a line of demarcation that either denies or expands our freedom.

I have watched as lines of fans wait to get a program or baseball car signed, sometimes for a fee, and watched as the hungry stand in line for food. For it is what is at the end of the line, or the head of the line that attracts us. So it seems I have been on line, inline, out of line, behind the line, over the line, and been at the head of the line. Both ends. Jesus makes the difference when He is at the head of the line. He honors the rules of the line, but expands them, giving a freedom outside of the lines. Rules and regulations in religion form a line around Christ, a boundary that keeps many from enjoying the freedom He promises, and delivers. Many wait in line for communion, once a year, but fail to commune with Him daily via prayer. They fall for a religious line about God, and sadly follow it, never experiencing true freedom. It is like learning to ride in a parking lot, just following the lines drawn on the pavement, and then getting out on the street, with the only lines designed to keep traffic on their side. Ride too close to the line and it can be dangerous. A freedom, but being taught religiously to adhere to the lines, many fail because they have lost direction, the lines are gone. what do they do? When asked the other day, if I had an answer, I admitted “I don’t have all the answers, but I have an answer, Jesus.” Who gives us the answers, and gives us the freedom to live outside of the lines of religion. To obey all laws of His-love God first, then your neighbor as yourself, and showing you how to stay on the straight and narrow, and still enjoy life. He operates outside of the lines of religion, yet in Him you gain respect for others, love of others, and a desire for God to be in your life. Something no preacher’s line, or religious line can offer, or deliver. His line may be straight, but it leads directly to heaven, and even widens to keep you on it when needed. A line that as you go into the horizon of life doesn’t shrink, but seems to expand. As lines, both imaginary, and seen, seem to disappear as you get closer to Him. You don’t seem to need the laws of lines when you walk in the spirit.

But some cross over the line, and are looking for the way back. Again Jesus is the way, offering us forgiveness, and showing the way. Sometimes a curvy road, for those of us who ride, but always helping us stay on the straight and narrow, following His line of love. All roads lead to somewhere, so do all lines. Only His leads to heaven. Ever wonder how many sides does a circle have? Two, an inside and an outside. But how many lines? One, that is continuous, that seems to have no beginning or no end, it goes on forever. Complete and incomplete at the same time. Where are you in Christ? Inside or outside the circle of faith? Are you part of the continuous line in Him, or trying to stay straight and narrow on your own? There may be two lines in heaven, make sure you are in the righteous one, where you pass into heaven. It may even be the shorter of the two lines, because you got in line earlier while here on earth. If not, no cutting in after death. For you it is the end of the line and hell. Make the choice now, so if asked “what line are you in?” you can tell the asker “I’m in line for heaven.” A line that goes somewhere without boundaries. That leads to Christ. Don’t cross over the double yellow and find out! Although life many times will send you to the end of the line, Jesus sends you to the front. Straight, dotted, or double-His is the line to follow. A line of one to follow.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.