9.10.04 a night in arcadia -morgan young A white chopper romps up to my house. Pipes turned upward with no baffles; you can feel the hot air pulse out of them from several feet away. On it sits a man who has been in the saddle for decades. He looks as strong and cool as the bike he sits atop. In short order four of us, Mike, Jim, Jameson and myself, are rumbling south down US 31 at 70 mph. The temperature is a sweet 70 degrees. The sky is a deep soft blue and the green of the periphery blurs by. Motorcycles are cool, no doubt; but something about traveling in a pack has an exponential affect on the soul. Somewhere in your subconscious thoughts bounce about like, "This isn't the Discovery Channel. This is real life and I'm in it." Something about cruising in a pack allows you to know each others' thoughts: Everyone is smiling on the inside. Everyone is feeling something of that little boy inside them that smiles easier than does the man on the outside. Miles down the road we turn east at an intersection you'd miss if you weren't looking for it. We lumber and even wind on the little road that leads us to the tiny Hoosier burg of Arcadia. It's a town that has no need of a stop light. It looks like a cheesy old western set: a block of storefronts on this side of the street, a block of storefronts on that. We all pull the horses over to the side and back the fat back tires up to the curb leaving the bikes at four parallel angles. No one says a word but the bikes line up perfectly. We walk across the street to some hole-in-the-wall saloon. It was so non-descript its name failed to mark me. We walk in. It's dark. It's smoky. I looked down on the plank wooden floor. It looked worn enough to have seen spur-clad boots sported by men on real horses. We walked down the narrow dive, past the regulars at the tall bar on right and stopped at a big round table--the same round table with the same saloon chairs that you've seen in dozens of shoot-em-ups. It was dark, musty and comfortable. It was just the place for four bikers to end up for some grub. It was a saloon. We were on bikes. We had to have a round of drinks. We toasted the ride, the time, each other. The clinking of glass and bottles was the click of a camera taking a picture in each of our minds, "Remember this time." The menu was unassuming; laminated at the nearest print shop. Like Arcadia, the prices seemed a few years behind the times as well. It was the kind of menu that made me feel like ordering was spinning a roulette wheel; maybe I'd be lucky, maybe I wouldn't. I asked our waitress what the best sandwich was. She was no liar. It was one of the best tenderloins I'd ever eaten. No one was disappointed. The dingy façade camouflaged pretty good eats. These four hombres could not be more diverse: A retired school teacher, a true biker electrician, a padre and a seeker of truth. The latter two, brothers, came off a week of reconnecting and generously watering a thirsty relationship. Backgrounds of the four: sports, intellectualism, addiction, bad choices, women, anger, bikes, quests for happiness. Jim, the retired teacher brought a reconnecting; he taught the brothers twenty-five years earlier. There was something cool and against the odds of we three sitting in such a place at such a time. Jameson, the seeker of truth, brought himself. Honest and forthcoming about his past and present, as if a test for those around the table to pass or fail; to accept him fully or not. All passed. And of course he always brings a wit and snappy sense of robust conversation. I, the padre, I suppose brought a quiet confidence. I knew Mike and Jameson were destined to talk and connect. I knew it would be cool to hang with Jim, a cool teacher from a time in our life before either of us had an opportunity to put stains on it. I knew I would love hanging out with people I love--yes, and bikes. I knew ground would be gained in Jameson's spiritual journey somehow. But I stayed low. I knew this was Mike and Jameson's time to talk. Mike, the biker electrician brought guidance. He guided the conversation just as easily around the table as he does bikes down the road. His eyes just beneath his black dew-rag looked for substance and opportunity. He drew us out. It's as if we all had the special with a side of honesty and humility. The meat of the conversation circled around where Jameson was with God. (For anyone within earshot of our table in this smoky dive it had to be weird and somewhat entertaining.) In so many words he told us he's strangely and strongly curious, somewhat at the edge of something yet holding on to something else he can't describe. We all knew exactly what he meant; we'd all been there. Words flew easily. There was no pretense, no posturing. There were good laughs too. The picture as we walked out of the bar was a 1970's album cover: In front of an old storefront four bikes stood beefily cool. Right then I realized we were the "biker gang" that had ridden into town earlier. And right then the coolness of the night air was eclipsed by the coolness of the whole experience: cool guys, a cool ride, cool conversation all in God's cool creation. It was the kind of night that just wouldn't have been the same had we walked out and gotten in our CARS... |
9.10.04 a night in arcadia -morgan young A white chopper romps up to my house. Pipes turned upward with no baffles; you can feel the hot air pulse out of them from several feet away. On it sits a man who has been in the saddle for decades. He looks as strong and cool as the bike he sits atop. In short order four of us, Mike, Jim, Jameson and myself, are rumbling south down US 31 at 70 mph. The temperature is a sweet 70 degrees. The sky is a deep soft blue and the green of the periphery blurs by. Motorcycles are cool, no doubt; but something about traveling in a pack has an exponential affect on the soul. Somewhere in your subconscious thoughts bounce about like, "This isn't the Discovery Channel. This is real life and I'm in it." Something about cruising in a pack allows you to know each others' thoughts: Everyone is smiling on the inside. Everyone is feeling something of that little boy inside them that smiles easier than does the man on the outside. Miles down the road we turn east at an intersection you'd miss if you weren't looking for it. We lumber and even wind on the little road that leads us to the tiny Hoosier burg of Arcadia. It's a town that has no need of a stop light. It looks like a cheesy old western set: a block of storefronts on this side of the street, a block of storefronts on that. We all pull the horses over to the side and back the fat back tires up to the curb leaving the bikes at four parallel angles. No one says a word but the bikes line up perfectly. We walk across the street to some hole-in-the-wall saloon. It was so non-descript its name failed to mark me. We walk in. It's dark. It's smoky. I looked down on the plank wooden floor. It looked worn enough to have seen spur-clad boots sported by men on real horses. We walked down the narrow dive, past the regulars at the tall bar on right and stopped at a big round table--the same round table with the same saloon chairs that you've seen in dozens of shoot-em-ups. It was dark, musty and comfortable. It was just the place for four bikers to end up for some grub. It was a saloon. We were on bikes. We had to have a round of drinks. We toasted the ride, the time, each other. The clinking of glass and bottles was the click of a camera taking a picture in each of our minds, "Remember this time." The menu was unassuming; laminated at the nearest print shop. Like Arcadia, the prices seemed a few years behind the times as well. It was the kind of menu that made me feel like ordering was spinning a roulette wheel; maybe I'd be lucky, maybe I wouldn't. I asked our waitress what the best sandwich was. She was no liar. It was one of the best tenderloins I'd ever eaten. No one was disappointed. The dingy façade camouflaged pretty good eats. These four hombres could not be more diverse: A retired school teacher, a true biker electrician, a padre and a seeker of truth. The latter two, brothers, came off a week of reconnecting and generously watering a thirsty relationship. Backgrounds of the four: sports, intellectualism, addiction, bad choices, women, anger, bikes, quests for happiness. Jim, the retired teacher brought a reconnecting; he taught the brothers twenty-five years earlier. There was something cool and against the odds of we three sitting in such a place at such a time. Jameson, the seeker of truth, brought himself. Honest and forthcoming about his past and present, as if a test for those around the table to pass or fail; to accept him fully or not. All passed. And of course he always brings a wit and snappy sense of robust conversation. I, the padre, I suppose brought a quiet confidence. I knew Mike and Jameson were destined to talk and connect. I knew it would be cool to hang with Jim, a cool teacher from a time in our life before either of us had an opportunity to put stains on it. I knew I would love hanging out with people I love--yes, and bikes. I knew ground would be gained in Jameson's spiritual journey somehow. But I stayed low. I knew this was Mike and Jameson's time to talk. Mike, the biker electrician brought guidance. He guided the conversation just as easily around the table as he does bikes down the road. His eyes just beneath his black dew-rag looked for substance and opportunity. He drew us out. It's as if we all had the special with a side of honesty and humility. The meat of the conversation circled around where Jameson was with God. (For anyone within earshot of our table in this smoky dive it had to be weird and somewhat entertaining.) In so many words he told us he's strangely and strongly curious, somewhat at the edge of something yet holding on to something else he can't describe. We all knew exactly what he meant; we'd all been there. Words flew easily. There was no pretense, no posturing. There were good laughs too. The picture as we walked out of the bar was a 1970's album cover: In front of an old storefront four bikes stood beefily cool. Right then I realized we were the "biker gang" that had ridden into town earlier. And right then the coolness of the night air was eclipsed by the coolness of the whole experience: cool guys, a cool ride, cool conversation all in God's cool creation. It was the kind of night that just wouldn't have been the same had we walked out and gotten in our CARS... |
