I am not very happy this morning as I don the under armor once again to face the cold. A quick look on the weather website and I discover a 37 degree chill awaits me just outside the door.
I roll the bike out of the garage, turn the key, pull the choke and hit the starter. Instantly my old friend awakens and breaks the silence in the neighborhood. A quick check of the equipment and I roll out the drive and toward the bridge crossing the Mississippi. On this Fall morning, I notice along the river, that the foliage has lost the brilliant hues of orange and yellow leaving behind only the dull shades of brown. To the east the sun is getting its first peek over the horizon as it begins its race across the Minnesota sky.
The air this morning finds its way through the bandana covering my face and stings my cheeks. I can smell firewood from a cozy fireplace and picture myself sipping coffee and looking out over the steaming river below. But on this morning I am not a spectator I am a participant. Up ahead the signal light changes from green to yellow. I place both feet on the ground and balance the bike to wait for my green light. Heat from the V twin wafts up my torso and I don’t mind sitting through the red light. I am thrilled to be the guy on the motorcycle riding in the 37 degree air. I love that I made myself get out and ride this morning. I know there are several other guys doing the same thing heading to the same place. We will sit, drink coffee and talk of the cold morning ride. We will reminisce about the rides we took through the heat of the summer. Then together as a team we will ride some tortured twisting roads until we must rejoin society and the calls on our lives. I can’t imagine my life without my motorcycle. I can’t imagine my life without my biker friends and our riding times.
Many times as I ride I have deep conversations with the one listening to the thoughts in my head. I often discover wonderful things about myself. I have written many songs of which many have inspired me to write them down. I love to return to those scribbled down thoughts and songs and find myself magically transported to the time and location where they were born.
I recall a small country church in Wisconsin where a friend and I stopped to rest one early morning. We parked our bikes and wandered around the picture perfect white church with its steeple and green door that beckoned all who would to enter. I read the plaque that hung at the end of the walk and found that the church was from the mid1800s. The cemetery beside the church was the resting-place for many of the families that founded this place of worship. The stories told by these markers spoke clearly how tough these people had been and how their faith had carried them through the dark times. In the future I will revisit this historical place and take the time to thank God for the people who remind me that in all things God is with us. Many of these people have been gone for a century yet their short lives have reached me and strengthened me some 1 hundred years later.
Your riding companion,
Larry
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