Getting Back on the Horse

The window of my study at the church looks right out at the entrance to our parking lot. It connects us to a two lane country highway that is fairly busy. Our location is just outside of town and not far from the highway, so it’s a common place to park and carpool or, more often, just to turn around.

A couple days ago I was talking on the phone when someone pulled up in a truck, sat for a minute in the parking lot, then opened the door and threw up on the pavement. A swish of water, a closed door, the need for pause complete, the traveler made his way back onto the highway toward home, I hope.

Today I looked out just in time to see a young man on a motorcycle coming down the road. He had no helmet (there’s no helmet law in Illinois), and didn’t seem entirely comfortable on the bike. Not a good combination. He wanted to turn into the parking lot in order to head back in the direction he came. My guess is that he was just trying out a friend’s bike.

I’m not great at estimating, but I would guess he was still traveling about 35 miles an hour when he began to make his turn. Our entrance is probably wide enough for three or four cars to come in at the same time, and he needed every bit of that space and more. The transition between highway and parking lot, given the 90 degree turn and his velocity, ripped the wheels out from under him and he slid the bike on its side into wooden barrier on the left side of the entrance.

He popped quickly off the ground, felt his head, arms, legs. Found himself in good shape, all things considered. Began heaving the bike back onto its wheels, unbending some crooked bike parts.

I walked out of the church, of course, to see if everything was alright. He was desperately trying to get the bike started, but to no avail. When I came out the door, he began trying a little harder, struggling to push the bike fast enough to pop the clutch. He averted his eyes, as if to say he hoped I was just coming out to get in my car, but without having seen him crash. He was embarrassed. He seemed to think he was in trouble.

This happens often enough. If someone is in the parking lot and I go out there, they seem uncertain and apologetic, as if they’re about to get in trouble. Two high school girls apologized profusely last fall when a flat tire stranded them out here. I just wanted to know if they needed any help. They were so embarrassed, they couldn’t say yes. So they waited 45 minutes for one of the girls’ father to come help.

My motorcyclist friend was shaggy, with baggy jeans and chains hanging out of his pockets. No worse for the wear, I could tell as I got closer to him. I asked him if he needed any help. “No, I got it.” Didn’t look at me. Kept pushing the beast with all his might.

Halfway through the parking lot he popped the clutch and exited out the back entrance. Fifty yards down the road he hung his head a little before giving it some more gas and going along his way.

A few minutes later, the bike was back, but with a different rider. More confident, skilled. He pulled in the front entrance, looked at the wooden barrier with a knowing smile, then exited out the back to rejoin his friend, the story having been verified. The smile on his friend’s face said he now knew for sure his friend had done something embarrassing, and there would be joy at rubbing it in.

I worry if maybe it says that church is a place where it’s too embarrassing to fall.