Originally published August 7, 2016
Michael had a mid-life crisis right after his divorce. To deal with his crisis, he did as many men do; he bought a motorcycle. Now, this was no ordinary motorcycle. It was, as Isabel liked to call it, the minivan of motorcycles. It weighed 650 pounds, had room for two, and a suitcase each side. We were surprised it didn't beep when he backed it up. (That may be, however, because motorcycles don't have a reverse. Who knew?) Michael was safe, and took a weekend course to learn how to operate it, bought a kevlar suit (the kind that stop bullets and prevent your skin from shedding off when you wreck it), and two helmets, one for himself and the passenger of his choice.
Here's Michael in his Kevlar, on a ride with one of his motorcycle friends. He sent this to me just to let me know he made it.
I like to think of myself as adventurous (I'm at seminary in Sewanee, Tenn, am I not?) but the motorcycle was just beyond the pale for me, I'm not a fan of rollercoasters, and being on the back of it made me feel like I was in the last car of a rollercoaster. The helmets leave no room for error, and gave me a terrific headache. Then, I ground my teeth the entire time we would ride. I mean, I was terrified the entire ride. We were dating, and I played the role of dutiful girlfriend and got on the back of it. Now, you may or may not know that Michael is not the most coordinated or mechanical person. So, even though he had taken a course on safety and driving, he had difficulty keeping it upright as it came to a stop. So I perfected the "gas station hop," which was projecting myself off the back by hopping on one leg far enough from the bike before it crushed my other leg. Michael then had to squat with his back to it and push it upright. Good thing he had a personal trainer at the time. I called it the "gas station hop" because the gas gage wasn't exactly accurate, and so Michael was never really sure how much gas was in it. And, due to his mechanical-less nature, we stopped at the gas station frequently. Michael attributes the motorcycle to confirming the possibility of our relationship. One fall evening, we thought it would be a great idea to take the bike to Saluda, NC, a little town just over the border, that has a great restaurant, The Purple Onion, that features not only good food, but great mountain bluegrass bands as well. The ride up is perfect for a motorcycle, if you're in to leaning back and forth as the bike turns right and left on narrow, hairpin mountain roads that are poorly lit and void of any sign of civilized civilization.
It really is a cute town.
We ride with helmets, leather jackets, jeans, and boots. My boots were the best I could do, cowboy boots from Wichita Falls, Texas, purchased in 1990 while visiting my college boyfriend at Officer Basic Camp in Lawton, OK. You don't get much more authentic than that, so I felt protected, and safe. We made it to Saluda, up several sets of rural roads that, in the daylight, take you past the picturesque (and coveted) Greenville watershed, then through rural farmland at the base of the mountains as they lead into the one-street town of Saluda. We had a delightful dinner at The Purple Onion, listened to some music, and, as the sun began to set, thought we ought to head back. In the dark. Needless to say, the dark only added to my motorcycle-riding anxiety, but I strapped on my helmet and put my trust in Michael. Again, because he is not mechanically inclined, he failed to monitored miles traveled against his not-so-dependable gas gage. About a mile out of Saluda, the bike stalled to a stop. And the sun set. "Mmmmmm," Michael said as he diagnosed the problem. "We must be out of gas." At that moment I was glad that in Texas, they don't make high-heeled boots. And so we set out to walk on that narrow, hairpin-turn road in the dark back to Saluda. I don't remember what we talked about, but I remember being glad that I was with Michael, and that he was a ridiculous, silly man. Michael said my compliance in following him, scared to death on a motorcycle and walking away from it on a mountain road after dark, was a sign to him that this whole thing just might work out. "By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to set out for a place that he was to receive as an inheritance; and he set out, not knowing where he was going. By faith he stayed for a time in the land he had been promised, as in a foreign land, living in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise. For he looked forward to the city that has foundations, whose architect and builder is God." Hebrews 11: 8-10 That was the Epistle reading today, and I couldn't help but think of Michael and the motorcycle (which he eventually gave up, thank God), and how we're living for a time in a foreign land, on a promise of a city with foundations. I know, of course, the only foundations are in Christ, and that wherever we are, if we are with him, we have a foundation. I come home to our Sewanee foundation for a few minutes again. Here to drop Isabel at volleyball camps and to get her settled at school. I'm back to Greenville again for work and a wedding, back here for another minute, then off to England for a bit before Michael spends the semester there. I feel a little bit foundation-less right now, but was glad to hear Mother Short preach on faith and this verse this morning at Otey Parish. She reminded us that we don't necessarily have to "just have more faith" to get through tough times in life; rather, she said faith is a gift from God, and all we have to do is receive it, remember it, and know that it's alive in us. Reassuring words to hear as a difficult summer winds down with a whirl of activity and movement, as we move on a solid foundation, built for us by God.
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