I had pulled into Zanesville, Ohio, and it was late. I was behind
schedule, a ticket and a road that just had to be explored took me off the route
by a couple hundred miles. An old tourist camp, the ones where they have little
cabins, looked inviting in the dark, really I am a sucker for old neon signs,
and for a small cash transaction, signed up for the night. And then the guy
behind the counter saw my Honda, and said “hold on,” and gave me back $10, and
moved me to a better cabin, where I could park it on the porch. Anything for a
fellow biker...We had ridden on the ferry across to Victoria, and Bruce had made
the reservations for that night. When we saw they wouldn’t work out, the
manager gave us back our money, and we went looking for a room. After 10pm, the
pickings were slim, but we found one. And when the lady behind the desk saw the
motorcycles, gave us the last room, a suite, for the price of a room. And
called over to the restaurant, who stayed open for us, and then the cook came
out and asked about our trip. While eating the manager came over and sneaked
the spa key in my hand, telling me it was closed, just be quiet, “I know you
could use a swim before bed.” Strangers in a strange land, the language of
motorcycles bridged any culture gap. On another trip alone, I was eating at a
Steak and Shake just north of Oklahoma City. A young father with his son, about
4 years old, had been staring at my bike, and when offered a chance to sit on
it, jumped at it. His father taking pictures, and the little boy having a story
to tell his mom when he got home. A few seconds out of my life, meant a
lifetime memory to a father and son. Never heard of any yuppie doing that on
his BMW. But just add a motorcycle, and things happen...
Brett and I had ridden to Monterey for the Grand Prix, and were staying at
a large Travelodge. When we pulled in, other riders told us of thefts the night
before, and jokingly we asked if we could park in our rooms that night. “Of
course,” and although taken by surprise, we did. Riding down the hallways, he
on a Ninja 750, and me on my FJ1100, we slept with our bikes that night, one at
the end of the bed, the other between the beds. All of us safe and secure, and
a little woozy after sniffing gas fumes all night, but bright and ready for the
day at the races. Saying goodbye to the guy who had slept with his GSXR1100
tied to his leg outside, packing a gun across his chest. We both would have
stories to tell later....It was pouring and dark going across New York state, we
had chosen the Turnpike because of the weather. Coming up to the tollbooth, a
leather jacketed arm came out and waved us through, a courtesy to us in the
rain. And we never got a chance to thank him. Earlier on the trip, I broke of
a footpeg on my Sprint ST, and stopping in a Chevy dealer with a Honda
motorcycle store in the back, told the mechanic of my dilemma. Going through
the trash, he found an old handlebar, cut off the end to foot peg length, put on
old grip on it, and using a set screw attached it. Promising he couldn’t say
how long it would hold. And finally being replaced when we got back home, over
3000 miles later. Footpeg intact. And one last Sprint St story. We were riding
along Skyline Drive in Virginia, and stopped at on overlook. Parking next to
another Sprint, the owner told us of how this was his backyard, he rode here
often, and if we wanted to follow him, he would promise us a great ride. Which
we did, which he did, we passed countless cars going way over the 45 mph posted,
never felt unsafe, and when he turned off, a simple wave was all that was needed
to say thanks for the ride. And of course there was the manage at Johnny
Carino’s outside of San Antonio, who when he found out we ride, gave us one meal
free, and offered to take off the next day to show us the roads of Texas Hill
Country. Faces along the highway of life we travel, simple moments in time,
non-scripted and invaluable. Names and faces long ago forgotten, but the
memories never die. The stories only get richer, and the rides never seem to be
as frequent as needed. If you ride, you know. And even if I could explain, you
would still have to understand, you still need to get out and find out for your
self. You cannot live life on my memories, they are that personal and
precious. And best seen from behind the handlebars.
Now some may call us lucky, and some others may get jealous. “Why can’t I
do things like that?” First you need to get out. Second there is no such thing
as luck. Luck would mean random thoughts and actions, that no one is in
control. Yet those of us who know Jesus know that isn’t true, God has
everything under control. They are called divine interventions, God already had
the right manager in Victoria who liked bikers, and who would extend courtesy to
us. God knew of a father and son eating at Steak and Shake that day, and knew
of a rider who would make their day. He had the old handlebars in the trash so
a mechanic could fabricate a new footpeg, and had a Chevy dealer with a Honda
franchise out back to make the day complete. Too often we think of God only in
emergencies, and wonder “where was he? If God cares, how did this happen?” Yet
he never left us, he went down that dark road with us when we knew we
shouldn’t. He kept us safe like one night in Philadelphia when the headlight
popped out of my BMW after hitting a pothole, in the ghetto. Kids throwing
rocks at cars, yet he kept me safe. We can plan all we want, but yet fail to
include God in the plans. When he should be the very center of them. And so
man plans, and God laughs, not at us, but with us. To show how much he loves
us, to show how much he cares even about the little things. He isn’t someone
along the way, someone we meet and forget, but a friend who sticks with us
forever. And once we include him in our daily lives, we find more life than we
could ever imagine. He guides us Mom and Pop diners, he shows us the last room
in town, that is just waiting for us. He has paid the toll ahead of time, and
is keeping us safe in the storm. All behind the scenes, never interfering, but
always present. And yet we forget all about him, listening to others who claim
God is just a religion of rules, never seeing the freedom in the spirit that
gives life. Trusting to luck, a philosophy, rather than trusting in truth. He
is the tour guide of life no matter which road you are on, and knows the best
places to eat, to sleep, to ride, and has the next memory just waiting for you.
All because he loves you...and without asking for anything in return. And so we
wait patiently for his return.
Short trips or long, alone or in a group, God has blessings waiting for
you. Don’t trust to luck when you can trust to Jesus. Proven over and over.
Just like a trip my old friend John Duffy took once on his old GT380 Suzuki. He
averaged over 63 miles per gallon, had great weather, and one night near
exhaustion in Texas, found himself asleep and bundled up, safe and secure next
to an off ramp, wondering how he got there. But God knew, and still knows
today. Don’t be asleep at the wheel, or even the handlebars, God never rests,
never sleeps, never slumbers. One night in Zanesville, another in Texas,
another Victoria. And so I ask, who plans your next ride? Faces on the
highway, I am glad I don’t face life without the face of God shining on
me.
love with compassion,
Mike
matthew25biker.blogspot.com