Going to Church

The last few Sunday mornings I’ve found myself at biker church.   I’m tempted to say it’s not church at all, except it is for me.   Simply put though, it’s a coffee shop up the street from my house where motorcyclists gather.   Bikes of all types line up along the curb out front while riders mill about, coffee in hand.   Some people have been coming for years, know which bike belongs to which body, though they may not remember the name of the owner.  The camaraderie is enough to keep people coming back again and again.  The first time I went to biker church, I met Phil- the guy who organized the trip to Deal’s Gap.  He’s part of the reason I think of biker church as church.  He’s pretty religious about riding; he rides every day, owns several bikes and does all kinds of riding- dirt, track, street.   I’d say I’d like to be like him when I grow up, except that I am: I’m pretty religious about riding, too. 

Bike Church

Biker church is a community of people united in their love for bikes and enjoyment of the ride.  I’m meeting new folks there, some I hope to call friends.  Last week, I was talking with Patrick and I found myself trying to explain my relationship to bikes.  I’m not like most riders I know in that I don’t care much about the specs of a bike.  For example, no matter how many times I try, I just can’t remember how much horsepower my bike has.  I know I don’t remember because it isn’t that important to me but sometimes I still catch myself trying to explain instead of just saying, “It’s all about the ride.”  It’s wearisome, all of this explaining and defending.  It wears on me after awhile. 

When I first started riding, I didn’t know how much of my life it would impact, how many of my friendships would result from a shared interest in motorcycles, how many vacations would be motorcycle trips or that a bike would be my main source of transportation.  More than these things though, riding has become a means through which I engage in life and it engages me.   It’s a continual teacher- the bike, the riding.  I didn’t realize how defensive I am or how much I question myself until I heard myself talking to Patrick.  It’s like a part of me feels that I don’t know enough about bikes to talk about them intelligently.  Logically, I know this isn't true but I'm not ruled by logic.  It's something else all together that has me questioning.  And I'm not sure yet what it is.  But I do know I’d like to be a little more gentle with myself than I am.  A little more forgiving. 

When I ride my bike, all this doubt, this needing to be better, recedes into the background.  There’s a time during a ride when I fade into the landscape.  I’m not a person on the bike on a road passing scenery but rather I become part of the scene.  This happened again Sunday during an afternoon ride when a bunch of us from the Deal’s Gap trip met up at biker church.   We road over toward Ada and down into Middleville then stopped for lunch at the Blackhawk Inn in Richland, a common stop for hungry riders.  After eating, we road up M43 with its series of curves then I broke off and headed home by myself turning north onto M37.  I was riding a leisurely pace, relaxed and easy in my seat, my belly full from lunch when I became aware of minute details: the contrast of colors in the landscape, the flickering leaves high in the trees, their upstretched limbs as I rode underneath. I glanced to my right and saw a hot air balloon above a stand of trees painted in brilliant hues.  Instantly, I was “of” that moment under that sky, alongside those trees, the sky open above me.  It was magical, miraculous, mind-altering.  Something broke open in me and tears came to my eyes.   There was nothing I wasn’t and nothing I should be.  I love these moments on the bike.  It’s fairer even to say that I live for them. This is my church, my religion.  This is what I’d die for.  If I have a few of these moments a day, there’s a few less where I’m trying to figure everything out, forgive something or someone.  There’s just the simple enjoyment of the ride.