Chapter 48 It’s Really Not Up for Debate: Part 1

It was a nearly perfect Saturday, one with cooler temperatures and a crystal, blue diamond sky. I was with Chloe, my four year old brown-eyed girl, and we were off to Krispy Kreme in the trusty Jacobson minivan. She was in the back, singing along quite confidently with Chris Tomlin, who was, unbeknownst to him, leading us in worship that day.

It's pretty early in my story, but for the record, I find myself quite drawn to Chris Tomlin’s music. If I have six CDs in the minivan's six-CD-changer, with five slots reserved for the legendary Boss, who is, of course, Bruce Springsteen, then it is no small accomplishment to be occupying the sixth slot. Mr. Tomlin should be proud to be among such company; you know, rubbing discs and all with the Boss. Anyhow, Chris Tomlin writes and sings with a childlike simplicity and passion that I think God likes, and through his music, and our subsequent worship, I believe God indelibly leaves his very fingerprints upon us, if I can be so bold to presume such a thing.

So, as I was saying, we were off to get breakfast. While waiting at our first traffic light, we noticed the local high school marching band was set up for their big car wash, to raise funds for this or that, a usual late summer tradition. The extroverts of the bunch were out on the shoulder of the road with big signs trying desperately to draw us in. Across the street and down a little were the cheerleaders, all of whom are extroverts, and they were up to the same thing. It was a popularity contest, one not lost on me (some 25 years later), because unfortunately, some things never change. I wondered fleetingly where I'd get a better car wash, but really, right about then, I wandered deep into thought about what group Chloe would belong to when she was older, and I secretly hoped she’d find a way to be welcome and welcoming wherever she was, and that maybe there wouldn't be any groups at all by then. Or, if there were still groups, that maybe she could navigate easily between perceived lines, like crossing from Indiana to Ohio on a country road. No fanfare, no suspicion, no border patrol.

We pressed on and decided to pass by both of our fund raising options, not because the minivan wasn’t in need of a wash, but rather because I didn’t have any cash. I never have any cash, it seems, and this particular morning was no exception.

Be that as it may, we merged onto the highway, due North, and it was open and clear, with big wide lanes, the kind of lanes that would have made Kramer proud. I pushed the outside boundaries of the suggested speed limit, and Chloe shouted over Tomlin that she wanted all of the windows down, and that the sunroof should be opened to boot. I acquiesced and watched as her fine strands of hair danced in and out with wild gusts of wind. She closed her eyes and put her arms out like she was flying, and it was very beautiful. The sun was shining through the open roof onto her little face and she looked like her mother, wherein fate has blessed her. I was a little disappointed when she eventually said she was done with all of the wind, and that I should close at least two of the windows. Maybe the sun roof too.

We slowed for our exit, and while leaning into the off ramp, we came upon our town's huge Harley dealership, and the parking lot was already bustling with activity. This particular location hosts numerous gatherings of the Harley faithful throughout the year, and this morning, again, was no exception. I watched with curiosity as we drove by because there was an insanely long line of riders–hundreds arranged two by two–apparently waiting in queue to embark upon some journey of great consequence.


We kept on going, though, toward our prized destination of sinfully baked confections and we pulled through the convenient donut drive-through. (They take credit cards, just in case you're wondering.) We chose the usual suspects: ones with multicolored sprinkles, thick sugar glazes, creme filled centers, and the like. And dietary complications notwithstanding, it should be stated here and now that nearly perfect Saturdays are converted into altogether perfect Saturdays with the simple addition of Krispy Kremes to the morning. It’s really not up for debate.

A dozen donuts-to-go later, we were driving back the very same way we had come. Pretty soon we noticed that a good number of police cars were blocking one of the intersections, each with their lights flashing, and it was all very official looking and a bit threatening, like the officers were shielding us from some horrific accident. All the same, we strained our necks to see what was beyond them–and within seconds of our stopping, it began. We heard them first, and then, a seemingly endless flow of Harley riders started moving in front of us, in slow motion, two by two, right on through the intersection, their bikes adorned with riveted saddlebags, tasseled handlebars, mufflers and metal parts shining in the sun. Helmets were optional for these riders as they embarked on a journey, like some large, clumsy flock of birds that floats through the air with grace, but only after they've truly taken flight.

It seemed like forever until it was our turn to go. I followed them, and just up ahead they were given the same luxury at yet another intersection by a whole new gaggle of policemen. This group of riders would not be separated under the watch of these officers; no, they were given wide berth and found their power in the mere mass of their number.

The noise of their procession was nearly overwhelming and I wondered how far away the rumble could be felt. Something about their unity was palpable, this simple gathering with a destination in mind.

And so I kept in their wake for a mile or two, the first non-Harley at the end of the line. It took me a moment to come to my senses and I eventually veered off toward home, feeling a little silly.

And it was right about then that I realized their destination wasn't mine at all.

In fact, where they were going, I think, wasn't even as important as the journey itself.

to be continued..