THE BIKER
Word Count: 305
He pulled out behind me and I saw him in the rear view mirror. An older guy, handlebar mustache, black sleeveless shirt, golden arms holding steady on a Harley hog. I was doing 55 in a 50, but I knew he would have liked to hit the wind a little faster, a little cooler on this sunny hot Sunday morning. I slowed a bit and pulled over just a tad to let him go by in the only passing zone on the twisty river road. He roared by, but not too fast. He must be a local, knowing the church and a 30 mph zone was just ahead.
But we rode together for a little while and I got to know him better. A heavy-beaded string of rosary beads hung backwards on his neck. The crucifix squarely centered on his back. A Harley dude, I think, and yet for a week or two, I had a 350 of my own once. And rode it 30 ft. before I dumped it like Artie Johnson’s trike. Now I’m a Honda CRV. A middle-ager’s car despite the standard equipment table and ice bucket in the back that was supposed to sell it to consumers as a party car. I click to roll the window down, a middle-ager’s version of freedom and the wind in my hair.
He made a lefthand turn into the church lot. I went on by; for me, not God but groceries are my routine. I think of my own faith, jaded and worn around the edges. A thin strand that ties me back to childhood and unquestioning belief. I think of the biker, zooming into Sunday mass and trusting God so strongly that he didn’t wear a helmet. That’s faith, I guess. That’s honest faith. And suddenly I have to laugh.
gosh i’ve been there. in that honda, i mean, though when i rode a motorbike, i fancied getting looks and thoughts like that, too. and a rosary! i used the rosary in my #51 too!
Yes–I saw the rosary beads in your’s today! I swear sometimes our minds connect across the ocean.