Rarin' to Roll

Dad got his 1985 250cc motorcycle running after sitting in the garage for more than 25 years. He was knocked over by a ferocious German Shepherd on his way out of the driveway one morning on his way to work. That dog was more than a pain in the neck. He was bloody mean. And I guess he hated motorcycles and didn't like dad much either, making him less of a dog in my eyes. I don't remember that he rode it again. He came back into the house a little bloodied, his hands shaking. I think I remember that he didn't get too excited. I think he always sensed that his wife and his family needed his surety, even when he should be freaking out. The bike lay there on the dirt. That Shepherd held dad at bay for awhile. Eventually he got the bike moved to the garage, and there it sat, a bit tainted, but ready nonetheless. The motorcycle became more a dusty fixture than anything. That's the way of things sometimes. Maybe we needed to forget for awhile. Maybe he couldn't afford to fix it. A man's allowed his reasons. It's all good. By faith and time, wiles and dreams, some hard work, wisdom and a little integrity, some times things come full circle.

Here we are, a good ways down 2011 and his classic 250cc Honda motorcycle is finally fixed, and my Dad is back on the bike! Maybe enough time has past, maybe they can afford it. Doesn't matter really. The courageous don't just get back on the horse, so to speak. They hop on with spurs on. I remember sitting on that bike as a boy thinking I wanted to ride it, needed to ride it, so I could be just like my dad. I doubt I'll ever have to dust off my dad.  He gets hurt sometimes, but never stops.  Some guys stop.  They quit.  He'll never be a cranky chained, stiff wheeled old man, my dad won't.  At sixty-something he's slower maybe.  He smells a few more roses these days.  But he paces himself.  I don't crank my bike hardly ever.  Best way to ruin something is to go full tilt all the time.  Takes wisdom to keep it cool.  

I guess I'll never be just like my munificent dad. But, I am my father's son. When I finally ride it someday soon, I'll feel proud to have the privilege of sharing a part of his life on that little red dream. The German Shepherd's dead. But it's hard to keep a good man and his ride down. The bike, my dad and myself are alive, ready and rarin' to roll.

Riders

She's a wind of a different sort, my wife is.  I don't gear up and she's dragging me to the road, rubbing my face into the asphalt and selling my bike on Craigslist.  She's no blowhard, no flash of hot air, no; she's wind.  She calls Iowa a "natural selection state" meaning one doesn't wear gear, they're closer to the front of the line with those waiting for Grim Reaper's signature.  Gear spelled looks like this "r-i-d-e-r", from another point of view looks like, "f-r-e-e-d-o-m" and from her side looks like "l-o-v-e."

She settles in unavoidable, and carries through me like Spring storms; forever Spring.

Wind dashed against my helmet, blurred the world, roads like bent trees.  Relentless breath as unending as the motor beneath me, and the love behind me.

Four-hundred and two miles ridden yesterday.  Gear does not make a motorcyclist, but it does help maintain them.  Motorcyclists are lovers and fighters; the entire package.  The wind is their joy and the other's lives their freedom.  They're one giant cumulous cloud rising stratospherically, and only a friendly wave away. They've the power to yank another from their docker's and polo lives, turn the heavenly fan to "high" and send them out.

She's a different kind of wind, my wife is.  She pats my helmeted head and says, "let's ride baby."  My gloved hands pull the clutch, release the brake, and turn the throttle; the shifter receives a quick tap and we're off. The road rises up to meet us, the wide open envelopes us, and my loving wind, my graceful yet firm freedom, my blessed wife, pats me on the helmet and blows me down yonder.

Prayers and Doubt

Can't remember when I wasn't able to write, but that's been me since Christmas.  Every reason I had to write from motorcycle trips to family and friend turmoil to my obvious calling into Counseling were also the reasons I couldn't write.  I've resolved to write again.  I might move further into poetry.  I did a reading a few weeks ago and one of the sponsoring writers came up to me after reading and said, "Your stuff is upper tier, world class even."  I don't yet know what to do with that information, and I'm not sure what I'll write.  But I know what God's put in me to do, writing being one of them.

I'll write when I can really, but I hope to twice a week.  Every Tuesday and Thursday, I'll write; about what I've no idea.  Maybe I'll write what I've learned from family and friends.  We had a horrible storm here not long ago, you would've enjoyed hearing how fast friends dropped what they were doing to help us and others.

I guess we all write about faith in one sort or another.  God reveals faith to us in greater and maturing stages throughout life, but we all had all the faith we needed the day we were born.  The lot of us, our stories, enlightens others and ourselves to our faith enduring and growing.

Mine's confused me and strengthened me since Christmas.  I took my first motorcycle trip through the back roads of rolling Iowa.  "May the hills rise up to meet you...", they did.  But God parted clouds; it was a day before the trip and it looked like rain.  I prayed for no rain, but also told God, "If you make it rain, that'll be ok too," thereby letting God off the "hook."  More importantly, I realized that doubt laces most prayers--"but if you don't, it's ok."  God parted clouds, not because he felt guilty--but I believe he watched us ride, and while there were other reasons God didn't make it rain where we were, I think he intended to give us dry ground, and he intended to teach me about prayer laced with doubt--a loving "what not to do" lesson from God.

Maybe I'll write about the news or politics or the American people.  We'll see I suppose.

I'll figure it out on Thursday, but bet it'll be about some way God prodded me to see him; happens all the time.  There are reasons God took me away from here for awhile--those secrets will be told eventually.

Either way it's good to see you today God.

Motorcyclist's Championship Bout

The wind sucked.  We rode our relatively heavy Triumph Adventurer 900 sideways.  Monique and I felt like rolling back-slashes.  I mean, begin with this "\", then mentally draw a motorcycle and two freaked people on the seats.  That's us.

We left on Saturday morning to Omaha; a little cool maybe, but we own the gear.  We rode well and besides my somewhat chilled and pickled fingers, the world turned and we rolled.

Sunday.  Went to church on a relatively calm morning, excited about God and the prospect of riding home on a perfect day.  Leaving church however felt more like the disciple's big day on the sea of Galilee.

"This could be interesting," I said.

"Uh-huh," replied Monique, obviously working her Zen.

Hunger.  The prospect of a big family meal held our aversions at bay.

We'd had eggs, biscuits and gravy and all kinds of good coffee for breakfast.  Dinner...King Tut might've enjoyed dinner.  Ham, potatoes, cheesy broccoli, soft baked bread and coleslaw filled our stomachs, and that was before a delicious birthday cake slid gracefully down.

Couldn't ignore it anymore.  Monique geared up looks a bit like the Michelin man.  But the bike goes down and she slides across the pavement like she's on a magic carpet ride and lives to tell the story.  I love my Michelin wife.  Her jacket is actually red and black and her helmet, gray.  The rest of her is back alley black and I find that totally hot.

"This could be interesting."

"Uh Huh".

I like the back roads but interstate 80 is really a lovely ride filled with rolling hills, beautiful flats and on the best days lots of sunshine.

Sunday though... back-slash bikers, "\", ...that's us.  The wind sucked.  The gusts were even more amazing.  War-like.  I'd say it was like the entire Senior High football team testing their metal on the pip squeak.  You ever been sucker punched by a prize fighter?  Me neither, but take a ride at thirty degrees ("\") and there ya go.  Except God was the prize fighter, Rocky freakin Balboa, and I was the librarian who thought nothing of peeing in his ever lovin' shorts.

Forty-five miles.  We rode toward an exit replete with Kum-N-Go and a BP or something like that.  Monique's hand pops into view and points toward the exit.

I get that.  I wanted off.

"Holy Moly," I said.

"My body is stiff from freaking out!" is what Monique said.  "Every time I felt like I was going to be ok another titanic gust hit the bike and I'd rush back to oblivion again."

"This is soooo not my favorite ride."

We stopped every 50 miles or so tell ya the truth.  Stops are good ways to get to know the area.  You look around, breath the air, kiss the road.

Frequent stops provided much needed relief.  Even the hardened need relief.  And still...only took ten minutes to stop the shaking before we were on the road again.

Mind numbing fear doesn't hold a candle to the spirit of the contumacious adventurer.  Believe that.  We were out there.  A lot of people wouldn't be.  Still, our bodies felt more like adventuresome noodles the first 90 miles.

Tell ya something else though...we got used to it.  Sort of tells you how numb our minds were doesn't it?  Besides the interstate 80's Sunday afternoon semi-fleet, and besides the nutty college kids trying to get back to college, and besides our angled ride and the championship bout with God's windy left hook, the ride home wasn't so bad.

The trees and prairie were bending over the rolling hills.  Flocks of geese flew overhead.  The road was straight enough and I can handle the college kids.  The earth turned and the our wheels rolled.

So we tacked another motorcycle adventure underneath our belts.  There were quite a few bikes out there actually and the lot of us waved our way through.  One dude passed us riding his Harley Fatboy.  His cheeks stretched and flapped in combination with strong winds and eighty miles per hour.  I'm sure it took some effort to keep his mouth closed.  He might've easily been in the gravity machine they use to test the resilience of your average astronaut.  He wasn't though.  He and his bike leaned into a steady road and a mighty gale.  Stretched cheeks were nothing compared to the biker's smile reaching both ears.

The adventurous giants we are...some would call us adventurous jack-asses and they might be right.

But we were out there, 'nuf said.

And we were really, really....really glad to be home.

Jed

The farmer's name was Jed.  A farmer named Jed, I can't write a story that perfect.  He lives outside a small town in northwest Iowa.  You can find him behind the dust and rows every Autumn.  You can find him chuggin' another red sunset and burning up another golden sunrise.  I saw him on the road one day and I know he knew me.  He gave me two fingers.  They lifted gently off the steering wheel and then he was gone.  I gave him the same sixty-mile-an-hour greeting at that exact moment.  Why two fingers?  That's how it's done, you don't need to know why.  Three fingers meant you didn't understand the vibrations felt by a Northwest Iowa farmer.  Three fingers mean you didn't get it.  The two finger wave has nothing to do with individualism or unique personalities.  They're not derived from rebellion or defiance. Two finger waves are a time honored tradition, a connection meaning, "I'm, free and I live free.  I've the strength pawns could never comprehend."  They mean they're not the citified junket waving hands and feet and head and hair chaotically if not erratically and joyfully at whomever.  Jed feels there's more power in self-control, more strength within subtleties.  Jed could probably do with a little more expression, but two fingers wield a lifetime of it.  Nothing to prove... just have to know it.

If you wave ignorantly (your entire hand, for instance), It just means you've got a lot to learn about the vibrations of an enormous and free life, and the power of two fingers. The air smells better, feels fresher and rejuvenates robustly on free land.  The dirt feels less like dust and more like potential.  It is after all the beginning of our creation.

I didn't need chores to find a red sun behind his dust.  I needed two fingers.  Jed simply trusted that I knew that my meal that day might've come by him and them.  Understand another without words.

I'm sure he does well enough, but you wouldn't know it by the rust draining from his Ford 150.  I guess maybe he should ask for help more often.  He sometimes takes on milking jobs to get by the winter.  He gets by.  And he lives free.  The motor behind the farmers rusty paradise took him through two hundred and fifty thousand and some odd miles.  Wisdom teaches that some miles aren't always clean and shiny, but you can count on them none-the-less.

Dan called me saying he fixed my motorcycle.  Thirteen days and 9 1/2 hours.  That's how long I'd been without it.  Dan beamed for me.  Really.  He did. He's a biker.  He gets it.  I felt exuberant.

My ride doesn't supply 60% of the nations GDP.  The shop gained some wealth by my misfortune, but nothing about my motorcycle feeds a hungry nation... but not everything has to.   All I did was slice the wind and I became Jed, the free man.  Freedom is the snap of an umbilical chord.  Freedom is leaving the life of childhood and finding your place.  Freedom is a clash between the heart and the heartless.  And a free man chooses to thrive and learn no matter the journey.  Freedom is the pursuit.  The air is fresher and cleaner and more robust.

Those of us on bikes breathe the rushing air, a gush of freedom.

I don't know why God trusts us enough to pound us with burdens.  It is the burden of the wise to give others all the time they need.  Many have never learned the art of leaving, of being cut.  Those who have sleep and wake up the next morning wondering where it all went and move on anyway.  Life like trucks and motorcycles vibrates underneath us and the wind splashes our faces bending the skin until it hurts. Journeymen find exhilaration from the pain and joy from life.  Vibration and wind proves life is.  Jed...his fingers are dirty, having lived in the dust from whence they came.  Dirt is where he finds his purpose and grit is where he understands a free life.  Some people get hands dirty and others write about them.  None-the-less, umbilical-less hands thrive with sin and integrity.

The road was bumpy and magnificent, and my bike purred.  Ridin' bikes is like the ultimate skinny dip.  Layered burdens tear away, and all that's left between you and God is creation and death.

I'm working on a project right now, as we speak.  I've got a long ways to go.  I suppose we all do; have a long ways to go, I mean.  The world is wide and noisy, but rumbles and vibrations and motion pare all things down to a still small voice, and fingers.

I love riding and I loved riding away from the fix-it shop.  Another biker rode toward me, hopefully not to the shop.  I suspect not.  His hand moved from the bars and dropped to his side...at the right moment one finger pointed outward toward the ground, the biker's greeting.  His one finger wave exists in a crowd of a million one finger waves and I returned the favor.  It's just a one-finger wave really.  Just saying "hi", just letting me know I'm out there.  That's what I said, he or she let's me know I'm out here.  Car drivers can be an unobservant lot.  I'm not anymore.  It's amazing how many close calls are made because the car driver can't or won't see me or my motorcycle.  Bikers just want each other to know they're seen... makes the tired vigilant feel safer, welcome.

Either way, It's another wave, the biker's code and I know it full well.  "You've come from somewhere, I get that," he said, "Take in the wind, welcome to the journey, and enjoy the road...you're a free man now."  Like understanding the voice of God, I'm challenged to listen without words.

Lifeboats and Motorcycles

The Triumph Adventurer rolled down interstate 29 south, opposite the direction I needed.  She was shackled into chocks; her muscles failed.  Monique and I had never taken a long interstate run.  We were three hours in and one hour short.  She didn't give up necessarily.  She growled, but had no bite beyond 45 mph.  That was difficult for me.  As those who ride know, the road and wind might as well be vitamin C.

All that gear and no place to go.  The rider stumped and the riderless shackled.

Life gets to me that way.  I've got the tools, the gear.  I ask for one good day, then something breaks.

Many of you have heard the story of the man and the flood.  The man prayed for God to save him from the flood.  Soon a rescuer in a boat floated by and yelled for him to jump into the boat.  The home owner declined believing God would save him.  Another boat came and the same scenario.  The dire moments had arrived and the house would soon be covered by waters.  A rescuer in a helicopter flew in and attempted a rescue but the homeowner again declined, believing God would save him, even when waters rushed by.  The man drowned, and he went to Heaven.  He asked God why he wasn't saved from the flood (The theology behind the story might be debatable, but continue listening!). God said, "I sent two boats and a helicopter..."

I asked for one good day.  We've been stressed.  I called my friend who lives in Sioux City, but he was in Minneapolis vacationing.  He told me, though, to hold tight.  Five minutes later he called me back and said a truck and trailer were on their way.  My friend owns a motorcycle.  Brad petitioned another friend to hitch up his own trailer to his friends truck and go to help me out.  Chris would take my bike to Brad's house, until I returned to Sioux City on Monday, at which point we'd figure out what to do.  I waited forty minutes or so when Chris, the truck and trailer, motored in.

In the mean time my Dad suggested I call my sister and brother-in-law.  My two sisters, their families, myself and Monique and mom and dad were to spend the long holiday weekend together at Lifelight Music Festival, the largest free Christian music festival in the country I believe.  So I called them.  Turns out they were five miles past our location.  They turned around, unquestioningly agreeing to haul us and our gear to Sioux Falls with them.

We arrived at the festival site on Friday night... disappointed, frustrated, stressed and worried.

One good day, God.

We vented a few moments before some of us decided to attend one of the concerts--the group Kutless was playing and I wanted to see them.  They put on a somewhat raucous concert full of haunted lyrics and emotional music.  And yet their show was fun, energetic and uplifting.  The air was cool and the breath fresh.

The flood story relates, you see.  I got rescued.  One good day.  Two actually.  There are no Triumph dealers in Sioux City.  My dealer and service station is in Des Moines, three hours away.  Brad's a police officer and had to work Monday night at Eleven.  He and I met at his house at 4 p.m.  He and I had resolved by phone that he would take me and the bike to Des Moines that night.  Brad felt it to be the best idea out of several difficult scenarios.

And so he did.  He drove three or four hours from Minneapolis, hitched my bike to the truck and drove me three hours to Des Moines and then had to drive back to Sioux City where his job awaited him.

One good day.  The best of friends, God's providence, and miracles galore.

The hairs on my head are numbered says writer Luke, quoting Jesus himself in Luke 12.  And so this morning I learned for the millionth time how to pray.

I'm feeling tired. I didn't sleep last night, but went to my Wednesday morning men's bible study anyway.  At 2 a.m. I was sure I wasn't going to go.  But my friend Neal said that when he's up and can't sleep, he reads his bible, and finds himself at peace.  I did that this morning.  I read Psalm 73, Matthew 4, Luke 12...Neal was right, my angst lessened, and I hung out with God.

So I went this morning--a hundred men get together, have breakfast, chat and study God's word.  We call it "PIGS"--that's "Pretty Important Guy Stuff."  Pigs was pretty good.  Pastor Richard began a series on Prayer.  He said some very profound and simple things.  Like when Jesus taught us to pray saying ABBA.  Richard stopped there.  Abba.

Christians know the prayer..."hallowed be thy name..."  Christians recite the rest of the prayer solemnly and reverently, many times in respectfully toned unison.  Abba, Father.

Christians over time manipulate the prayer into this reverent,  "Thou, Thee, Yahweh" prayer.  We've filled the prayer with pharisaical rancor, denying what God always wanted--to dote on his people.

Thou's, thee's and Yahweh's" actually serves to fill us with doubt.  "God is too big, God is too fearful..."  We want to sound respectful or reverent, but our attempts at "respect" only serve to create distance between God and I and deny the words of Christ who at the pinnacle moment, revealed a God who prefers to be called, "Dad".  Instead, our prayerful words prove to those around us that God is to be feared in such a way that he is almost unapproachable.

So Jesus taught us something different.  And that difference really meant something to me this morning.  In my tired, fearful, disappointed place, were Jesus words, "Abba Father."  And what Jesus began teaching with two words--"Dear Dad..."

One of the lead singers said this weekend to a group of 100,000 people, "We are not the sum total of our choices, no.  You and I are the sum total of God's choices."  My mistakes do not turn away a doting father.  My failures only prove to teach how saved I really am.  This man said, "We are not a people here struggling to be free, we are a people free to struggle and to then have an honest conversation with God."

An honest conversation with God.  There are several contained in the bible, and I've had several in the last few days.  One good day God!  Please!  But, I'm a son leaning on my dad.  Jesus taught me about that.

And so I prayed that way this morning.

"Dear Dad, I know you love me and the hairs on my head are known.  I know, because you are my dad, that you will walk with me and even carry me when I need.  I know you will guide me past temptation.  I know that, because you crown me more gloriously than the sparrow, you will always fill me with bread.  And even if I am hungry, my heart will rejoice because your kingdom comes, and is here.  Your power is, and yet your just ways provided me with mercy and with grace.  I don't understand everything dad.  I guess I am just a kid.  But one day I shall fully know.  What I know dad, is that you are glorious, and I love you."

"One good day God." ... ... "Dad?"

The Wind

The words in the song say something like "Party like it's 1969". I can't even remember who wrote it. There's an old Blues tune by the same name. New Year's Eve I partied like it was 1939. I did. The average age of the party was somewhere well over 60.

Christmas celebrations define a time "when", right? At least Christians celebrate an event which doesn't move. It is the birth of Christ. The events within that story happened within that year. The birth of Christ didn't happen one year and then again ten years later. Even if you celebrate a winter soltice, or a fat guy in a fat suit riding in a fat sleigh with energetic reindeer, including one with a shiny nose, they all have something in common. They don't change. Soltice is, we know that. Santa never ages or grows any fatter (but who can really tell at 2 a.m. when he slides down your chimney right?). New Year's is different. In fact it's the only celebration that celebrates the passage of time, not the time "when". Even your own birthdays mark the day you were born, a day frozen in time. New Year's feels like wind. We're prompted to set resolutions, talk about the unknown, relish in all that was last year with friends, family and hoards of New Year's letters received and written. We don't just get cake and a favorite meal, we celebrate with feasts of great magnitude! There are a great many songs about the New Year and only one about my birthday.

And so it was the New Year's Eve. We partied like it was 1939. We'd invited some of our younger friends, but none could come for one reason or another. So I partied with Don, Herm, Jerry, Glen and others, most who've seen a much greater life span than I. Oh, I played games and messed with the tots that night of course. I had a busy and playful night. But I loved my time with the old guys.

They remembered a day back here or there. Days when Newton Iowa was this way or that way. They remembered days when simple illnesses were major events. I heard one story about life before World War II and I found out that people's attitudes or ways of being weren't much different than they are now. So these old guys--I suppose some of them only have a grunt of life left in their bodies. But we talked, smiled, laughed and groaned about the winds that blew on other days well beyond my memory and I'm glad for it. I studied history in school, but I experienced some of it on New Year's Eve. Don begins many of his sentences with "Well ya know" and Glen often starts with "Why..." and not in question form either..."Why, back when I was 13 we worked..." and so on. They pray in "thee's" and "thou's" and a person like myself learns a little about reverence that way...yearns for that kind of reverence even.

I learned about days before fast food, a time when everyone had a garden and no one minded weeding and everyone loved to sneak a strawberry off the plant as they worked. The stories were blissfully familiar to them. I nodded and laughed as if I understood the wisdom offered by time. I told a few of my last year's motorcycle stories and Yellowstone stories and others, and they nodded and laughed too; maybe I gained some street cred, like twelve year old Jesus at the Synagogue.  But then they remembered riding their own bikes, about how mechanics weren't around every corner, about how they had to figure it out themselves. I'm thankful for mechanics...but I can see how I might benefit without them.

These guys are somewhat trapped by yesteryear and overwhelmed by today and yet tonight they'll all watch the six-o'clock news in digital high definition without wondering much about "where it all went."

But I'm thankful for winds, for parties with old and wise guys who are my old and wise friends, and I'm thankful for the day after, simply because I was with them. But I'm most thankful for the stories. Maybe one day a young lad will sit by my side listening to me regale about my own days--about the winds I remember.

So it was a great night and an unexpected night. The clock struck twelve, we prayed together, I kissed my lovely bride, and drank my champagne.  Then I lay in bed and I thought of the old guys. I would've enjoyed the company our usual crowd, the "yunguns" the old timers call us.  But as it was we might not have spent much time isolated into our own young circle because the golden morsels leaving the lips of the old guys would've mesmerized them too. I hope I remember the things I learned this New Year's night. I hope to party with them again because that is a great, fun, funny, knowledgeable group of guys. And I hope that every time I go outside, that I can hear the wind blow.

The Birds and Christmas

So, yesterday I'm scooping snow after yet another wintery night, wishing I was on a bike, scooter or motorcycle and I said "This Scoopin' is for the birds!" I then got into my car, slid out of the driveway and headed off into the snowy city and ran some errands, simultaneously wishing I was on a bike, scooter or motorcycle and I said "Drivin' in the snow is for the birds!" I then realized I was getting a doozy of a cold and I said "This cold is for the birds!"

But then I realized something. We scooped so we could get out of the driveway safely, so that we could do errands, so that we could do good things for people, and get enough fuel so that we could get to Sioux Falls and my parent's house in good order.

We left the house, anticipating a pleasant four hour drive.  But first we simply wanted to get a bite to eat before hitting the interstate. However, the roads were stuffed with traffic and had slowed to a crawl, and I thought that this might be easier if I were on a bike, scooter or motorcycle, but instead said "This traffic is for the birds!"  

Then I realized mid-sneeze-n-sniffle that sometimes life doesn't happen as we think it might or should.

I have the freedom to celebrate with my family one of the most amazing events in history, Christ's birth. 

The car was warm and comfortable. I felt a twinge of guilt, and that moment I understood that it wasn't so bad to do all the things that might have otherwise been left for the birds.

God bless all of you and Merry Christmas