riding alone, but never lonely inside the beltway

True to form, I had ridden 400 miles my first day out, arriving in Washington, DC only 200 miles away. I was staying with my friend Paul Sears, a world class drummer, whom I met thru Stu. They had met in college, and had talked Stu’s dad, a dentist, into supporting their dream for a year, while dropping out of school. Neither ended up going back, Paul moved back home and played locally, and Stu and his dad got arrested in one of the largest drug busts on the East Coast. And both did time. God’s timing on my leaving was great, as I knew many of those arrested, and may have gone down with them by being a known associate. This was a big deal, as it made the front page of the NY Daily News, and the drug pipeline from Florida to New York was interrupted for weeks. Paul had moved back in with his parents, and sister, Marianne, and they lived in this huge old house where their side of the street was Chevy Chase, Maryland, and the other side Washington, DC. The trip was boring except for being paced by a cop in Baltimore, who pulled me over and tried to bully me for going 58 in a 55. When I asked for his sergeant, he got upset, and like I told him, “we both were there, I’m sure he would like to hear why you waited so long, and were traveling over the speed limit yourself.”

From a 30 degree morning leaving, I would spend the next day in DC riding around on bicycles in the 80’s. It was beautiful, and Paul took me all kinds of places tourists don’t get to see, and we even got in to see the pandas at feeding time, who were on loan from China. Great day, great time, and great friends. But I found out the next morning why they call it Stormy Monday, and why Tuesday can be just as bad. We had stopped for donuts before I left, and when I came out, the bike would go into gear, but not move, and it made some horrible noises. And in the era of bike shops closed on Monday, it would be Tuesday until I could get it to Capital Cycles, and almost a week later until I would head south. The driveshaft bolts had come loose, which could have happened at speed, but didn’t, God again was watching out for me. But I spent that night out drinking heavily, with Marianne, in her new Chevette. And got very sick from it. The drinking. No way to impress a pretty girl who next year would be in Playboy, July 1976. But she was kind and took care of me, while my bike was nursed back to health. Paul was a real friend, good people we used to call them, and I heard from him for a while after I left. If ever again in Washington....

Now the I-95 corridor wasn’t completed yet, it was more like the Jersey Turnpike, I-95, IS 1,17,301, and I-16 corridor. So it was slow going, and my destination that night was Gainesville, Florida to see my old girlfriend. But a new section of 95 had just opened-no cops or any traffic, and I raced along at over 100 for a while. Speeds the road and my R90S were both designed for, just not legal. And I made the 810 mile ride in great time, including a late lunch at South of the Border. Pedro sez...and I was off.

Now Paula and I had been boyfriend and girlfriend for four years, then broke off when she went to school. And we reconnected after I got saved, and she fell in love with the new, improved Mike. She had an apartment with some other girls, but I was welcome, on the couch, my choice, not hers, for the two nights. It was odd watching them get high without me, but I had no desire, and while they studied, I sat on the sofa and read my Bible. The next day while she was in class, I went by the local BMW shop, where they informed me Butler and Smith knew about the engine problems, and were repairing them under warranty. Good luck getting my money back, besides Jersey was in my rear view mirrors, not ahead over the handlebars. It was nice and warm, as Florida should be, and the weather down had been comfortable, but the next day would be my last day of good riding weather. So saying our good byes, we would keep in contact, but we would never see each other again, my new life headed west.

Now Florida is almost like two different states, snow birds and blue haired old ladies south of West Palm, and rednecks across the panhandle. I was going west on I-10, when I was stopped in DeFuniak Springs for speeding. Seems the revenue enhancer who stopped me saw my Pennsylvanian plates and wanted to add to their coffers. Also I was scared, as we had been forced to leave Fort Lauderdale the year before, when our apartment was raided. I was clean, but what would the record show? I was let go with just a ticket, and told to appear in court on November 31st. When I wrote the court from Albuquerque that no November 31st existed, I never heard back. Either the cop had goofed it, or done it on purpose, either way I was clean, clear air to New Orleans.

Now having been in New Orleans in extreme heat and humidity just three months earlier, I was expecting Florida weather. Hey, I was still on the Gulf, and it was pleasant until the sun went down, and all the humidity turned to fog and a biting cold. I was staying with another friend, Ronny Cohen, a medical student at Tulane, and his girlfriend’s parents were planning a big dinner for me. Now start with a new area, in the dark, add fog,and the accent of his girlfriend, William David Parkway sounded like Wiggin David, and I was late, by only an hour and a half, trying to find Wiggin David. So close, yet so far. But they were gracious, the roast beef hot, and Ronny showed me New Orleans much like Paul had shown me Washington. I ate a Po’Boy, beignets, café au lait, and came within inches of meeting Paul McCartney and his band Wings. They had done a concert the night before in Fat City, and when we went to breakfast, parked in back of a limo. Smiling faces waved from inside, and we nodded hello back. Inside all the talk was that an ex-Beatle , Paul had just left in the limo out front. Paulie had waved to me, for him just “A Day in the Life,” for us conversation for the meal. After a great two days with the future Dr. Cohen to be, I was heading towards Houston, and then head north on US 287 to Amarillo. No more friends until Albuquerque, I was riding alone in the cold, but never lonely. I had been inside the Beltway, inside the limo, a college campus, and done the Big Easy. Texas weather would change everything... good thing I knew God, and He was with me.

to be continued.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

riding alone, but never lonely-the long good bye

After a few days back from my trip, it had become evident that the new Mike in Christ and the old Mike in Jersey would not mix well. My heart was somewhere else, as was my only Christian friend, and some decisions would have to be made. I wanted out, and only my job, no money, and selling my van were the only obstacles. But as I wanted more Jesus, the world wanted more of me too. John had planned a Welcome Home party for us at his parent’s house. His dad was a special products manager at Bell Labs, and they had gone away for a month, leaving John in charge. They lived in a private town outside of West Caldwell, home of Tony Soprano. It was down a long drive through the woods, about a 1/4 mile, then opened up to a big house, which reminded me of Mt. Vernon. It took longer to walk through than driving across Texas. It had a huge brick patio, then another terraced level with a huge pool, then another lower level with a pond, with a dock and fishing boats. I was busy trying to take this all in, looking for a place to park among all the high end sports cars, when John came out, with a group of girls. Wearing one piece bikinis, without the upper part, they all ran up and embraced me, and I was overwhelmed. And they all wanted to meet me, and so we all jumped into the pool-there were even more in the house, such dreams of a mortal man, and a dream only months before-now it was somehow not as attractive, but I was still attracted. One girl, Debbie, her dad made TV commercials, and I became good friends, until her best friend, Tracy, who was in Gallery, March, 1975 wanted me, and they fought over me. And I lost interest in both. I had also reconnected with my old girlfriend Paula, who now was in love with the new Mike...where were all these pretty women when I was looking? I would see her one last time in Florida on my trip, then come close to marrying her two years later. But my heart had changed, and was changing. What was going on inside of me? What it was was Jesus.

Work was also different, as I had changed. My boss Walter Illick had once laid me off, and then 30 minutes later, on bended knee apologized and hired me back. But this time I was glad to be laid off, and thanked him, he knew I wanted out, and wished me well. I later would go to his mother’s funeral, surprising him, and blessing him by showing love. I had changed. So I had one problem down, and two to go. Meanwhile, I partied harder than ever before. John and I spent much time together before he cut off his pony tail and went to work for GM. With no income, friends rejecting me since becoming Born Again, and my parents waiting for this California thing to wear off, I still needed to sell my van. John in Cali called everyday on his WATS line, and when I told him of my situation, he asked if I had prayed about it, and was surprised when I told him I didn’t know you could. So we did, and later telling my mother, she said it was sacreligious, but things started to happen. The next day I read an add saying this dealer bought cars, so called, and then went down. I was greeted by Bouke’s brother Dickie, whose girlfriend’s father owned the dealership. The same Dickie who had robbed my apartment and gone into hiding since I had put Por Favor on his trail, and how he didn’t mess himself I’ll never know. Going overboard to call off Por Favor, I walked out with more money than I had paid for the van, and the free offer of a loaner car, which I declined. When I walked in the house, hands raised in praise, my parents got more suspicious. I was praising God. Now all I had to do was service the R90S, and take off for California. I was so close, yet so far...I just didn’t know it, yet.

I had taken my bike up to Phil, a good friend and superior BMW mechanic in Ridgefield, Connecticut, some 90 miles away, and Geno had ridden me back. John and I talked everyday, and then he dropped the bomb-he was being transferred to Albuquerque in two weeks, about the same time I was planning on leaving. What was gong on God, everything had been working out? But I was to discover, two years later, why, when I met the woman of my dreams. So California was off, Albuquerque was on, and I wondered if I would have to brush up on my Spanish. Did they speak English in New Mexico? I didn’t know or had never met anyone from there? And was this where God was leading me? Yet with so much to do, and so much partying interfering, two weeks seemed like forever, until it got there too soon. I had made it a habit to read a book of the Bible every night, no matter how wasted I was, thinking it would atone for my sin, not realizing Jesus already had, and my lifestyle was taking a toll on me. You cannot serve two Gods, and I wanted Jesus, but bad company was still corrupting my newfound good morals. Something was to give, and I was leaving my wicked past for a new future. But one last party was to be attended, mine.

And what a time was had. the alcohol flowed that night, and people showed up to see me off, some I hadn’t seen in years, the common good bye was “you’ll be back,” as it seemed no one escaped the lure of Jersey. Wasn’t it the same everywhere? But I knew different, and wouldn’t be back. Just as a confirmation, when going to Scotchwood Liquors for more beer, and to say good bye to Herm, you know you are in trouble when you say good bye to the liquor store owner, a man pulled a gun on Nicky and I-and we split. Never did say goodbye to Herm-I had had enough. And although the party went into the wee hours, I was packed, ready, and anxious when Geno came to get me at 8 am the next morning. I would finally be leaving Jersey on my motorcycle, but not on my BMW, as Geno would ride me to Phil’s to pick it up. It was a sunny, cold and clear, 30 degree, November morning, but I couldn’t feel the cold. I was numb with excitement for my trip and what lied ahead.

I rode with Geno down the Parkway, before he cut off for home, gave me a wave of good luck, and I continued on. Washington, DC was my destination for the night, and was still 250 miles away. With Jersey November cold, I rode on, at 55mph, with cops behind each tree. I was on my way, riding alone, but was never lonely. I had left friends, family, work, and my past behind. I was truly a new creature in Christ, and my next test would come that night in the Nation’s Capitol. Where an overnight stay turned into a week long party...and less.

to be continued.

love with compassion,

Mike

matthew25biker.blogspot.com

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