Biker Blessing

 

It’s humbling to stand in a crowd of people and 128 bikes, the first 70-degree day since last autumn (72 to be exact), and pray. Large, aging men. One woman straddles her bike, fiddling with the straps of something, her thin wrists flicking nervously, or perhaps impatiently. The prayer isn’t long, maybe seven, ten minutes, but most everyone’s hands remain folded respectfully. This is why they’ve gathered – the young, the very-new, the professionals, the old-timers who have ridden for forty years. To pray a bike blessing over the oncoming motorcycle season, to invoke God’s holy name in a request for safety and well-being. Oh, and good weather, if that isn’t considered sacrilegious. And in this crowd, I doubt it would be.

 

Bike after bike is lined up in the parking lot of Saint Isadore’s. It’s the ninth year they’ve hosted an annual bike blessing. When I ask someone what the occasion is, he points to the building and says the priest’s going to come out and bless all the bikes in a little while. In the meantime, I should enjoy myself, he tells me.

 

I wander around the bikes, stopping to chat with a couple about their cycling ventures. Tara’s new at biking, hasn’t even been on the roads for a full year yet. She laughs when I ask if they both ride. “I do, and he borrows my bike.” I smile at her confidence, ownership, possesivity.

 

“What’s the biggest stereotype the general public has?” I want to know. Mike is more than willing to answer my question. He’s wandered over to his tan Yamaha after I’ve already spent five or so minutes talking with his wife, Donna, a tough little angel sporting a Harley tank and a pair of velvet embossed jeans. “It’s self-defense out there on the road. Bikers get a bad rap. You got more good people than bad people riding, but it’s the bad people that stick out.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mike’s been riding for more than forty years. He started out in his early twenties, and with thousands of miles behind him, he still loves the adrenaline rush he gets, whether it’s a light 250 mile tour from here to the Upper Peninsula or a Thursday evening taking back roads, ending up in a bar with good hamburgs and beer.

 

Victor’s crashed his bike several times, but it doesn’t stop him from riding. He loves long rides. Think Michigan to North Carolina and back in less than a week. “What happens when it rains?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It feels like someone’s firing 1,000 BB guns at you.” To avoid the torment, he pulls over at gas stations or beneath highway underpasses. He doesn’t sleep in luxurious five star hotels on these jaunts either. He likes to sleep beneath the stars. He recalls one night when the weather was uncooperative. He slept beneath a picnic table.

 

All the cyclists I talk with hate helmets. Soon as they pass the Michigan state line, “the helmet’s on the back of the bike,” Steve, another riding veteran tells me. The restriction takes away the freedom (and the risk, I’m thinking). He leans casually against his bike, resting one hand on the distressed alligator fabric covering his seat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“These are American citizens,” he boasts, gazing around at the other riders standing around catching up. These people are humble and they’re willing to “bring religion into their lives” in a way many other people are not. A bike blessing, after all, brings together a mix of the most interesting people, people who aren’t necessarily religious or regular churchgoers. Everyone here is “willing to help someone out. They care.”

 

Steve is referring to the fundraising that this day entails. The proceeds from a poker draw and alcohol sales get donated to the Make-a-Wish Foundation. “I take the high road,” Steve informs me. In his opinion, “We’re homeland security on two wheels.”

 

These men and women have one thing in common: they love to ride. As the afternoon progressed, the bikers gathered for a ride around the city before heading their separate directions. The priest had one piece of advice: “Godspeed.”