Storytellers are a treasure. They leave the listener with seeds. When the time is right, they will grow. While some are intentional, others are for random moments in your life and mine.
In Southern California I know Mama Springer waits for me. She is an old-school Harley, standing as if she is sitting. Her weight is distributed low. The chromed Screamin-Eagle engine looks mean, even when cold. The fat rear tire protrudes as if to remind you that there are things in life made for comfort and function.
As I dress for my ride, I can hear those that gifted me with stories of other rides. Their wisdom reminds me of the attitude I should take on every ride. Awareness, care, and riding within one’s limits are just the beginning. Their wisdom echoes with the initial rumble that emerges when the engine kicks to life.
With each ride a new chapter emerges. I wish the details would always stay with me; the rush of the Santa Ana winds, the smell of a dry forest, and the sting of bugs tagging my face at sixty. The way the senses are touched often blur into prior rides. What I remember is the other riders on the road. The kindness of other Harleys, the courtesy wave and the times that they stopped to see if I needed a helping hand when I was on the side of the road. Another memory that stands tall is the way others ride. Some are cruising, taking time to enjoy the ride. Others are in a hurry, weaving in and out, carelessly inviting fate to touch their lives.
In context of how individuals ride, I hear the wisdom story of my riding teachers. For those on the extreme, it is clear that they have not heard the stories. If they have, then the indictment stands; “If someone claims, ‘I know him well!’ but doesn’t keep his commandments, he’s obviously a liar. His life doesn’t match his words.” (1 John 2.4)
In riding there is a proof statement; it is time to ride.
