I woke up early for a weekend, 8 or so. I still had the kids overnight and my ex was coming to pick them up around 11. I stumbled around, took a shower, gave instructions to my 11 y.o. on how to care for and feed the 5 y.o and off I went to my first ever group motorcycle ride with the Austin Motorcycle Riders Group, a meetup.com group.
I'm sure you've seen them: long staggered lines of bikers on the highway, conveys undoubtedly setting off Richter scale sensors in nearby states. Contemporary knights going off to battle on their trusty steeds, visors glinting in the sun. That was me today. I was one of them.
It was an interesting group, from the plush Goldwings and low-slung Harleys, both worth more than many cars, to the more modest bikes: the newbie riders' relatively cheap Japanese bikes, me and my "little" 800 cc Triumph. There was a lot of leather, a lot of tattooed skin. a lot of exposed middle-aged fat. There were the old wizened riders whose riding experience went back to the first Nixon Administration, the aforementioned newbie riders, primarily identifiable by their shy demeanor rather than any lack of skill, and many people in the middle in which I will generously include myself. There was one really eccentric guy in a leather vest festooned with patches declaring himself to be a "Christian Infidel", "Biker for Jesus" and other other unusual things, he rode a heavily modified old pan-head Harley with a kick-starter (only) and straight pipes. The people who rode next to him will never hear again.
It was a beautiful cross section of humanity, well at least in the 40-65 year-old age bracket. We were out in the wind, the sun, enjoying yet another beautiful day, our work and worries eclipsed by the sheer gloriousness of being alive, sweating in the hot Texas sun under our layers of black leather and stifling helmets.
It goes without saying that I had the most resplendently beautiful bike, the coolest jacket and definitely the prettiest brightly-colored plastic-bead key chain (made by my oldest when she was 10) of anyone in the group.
We were all cool and powerful, tough and independent, real badasses. That illusion could continue as long as we kept our middle-class jobs to pay for the gas that our beasts drank, and could get home in time to mow the lawn and do the laundry.
Nothing mattered though, because today no one felt more like Steve than me.
It's good to be alive.
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The ongoing saga of my life, my search for meaning and happiness.
3 comments:
I can feel the "smile" coming through as you wrote this piece. Totally and incredibly AWESOME!! How far you have come. Keep going!
Thanks, it's good to hear from you again.
I'm starting to feel alive again. It comes in dribs and drabs, but more and more often.
The bouts of crushing loneliness and depression come less often. I am able to really appreciate the beauty and people in my life more. I am gaining perspective on my life day by day.
God has seen to it that I am reminded at just the right times of how good it is to be alive and to be human. He puts in my path people and experiences that re-connect me with the world and happiness: lunch or (a 5 hour) dinner with someone, a hairdresser who flirts shamelessly with me, a bunch of middle-aged bikers pretending to be Hell's Angels members. I appreciate his grace.
It is interesting to see how things work out in my life, to notice all these things that "just happen".
What a wonderful picture you paint. Laughed out loud at the two who will never hear again. What a biker dude you must be (even while you cut the grass). Thanks for making this part of the Internet worthwhile.
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