By Craig Biddle III

Motorcycling through the winding roads of the Maryland countryside that I call “my community” is the closest my soul comes to Nirvana. So many fields and woods glimmering with a million shades of green, unpredictable rivers, nostalgic horse farms, the pungent odor of fertilizer and mown hay, fascinating small villages, sweet places to stop for lunch. I know my community like a fox who knows where to find nourishment. At least, I thought I did.

It was late afternoon, and I was pressed by urban commuter traffic. Cars and trucks moving along about 50 mph on each side of the narrow median. I usually try to avoid high speed roads, but commuters, anxious to get home, can be pushy even on side roads.

My Indian motorcycle, though somewhat old, had been running well. Riding it, I was feeling simultaneously contented, cocky, careful and, above all, thankful.

One of my daughters and her son ride also. Three generations often ride together. So, I have some support in the family.

Some people suggest that at 87 years old, I should probably know better than to ride a motorcycle. And I do know better: I ride an Indian motorcycle. There is a long standing class warfare between Indian Motorcycles and Harley-Davidsons. Riding my Indian, I feel supreme: I love the wind in my face, the freedom, the independence, the image.

Suddenly, this day, on an afternoon errand near my home, the motorcycle engine, without warning, cut out. It simply stopped running and, after several disconcerting, loud backfires, rolled to a grimly silent stop.

The first feeling that overwhelmed me was of deep, visceral embarrassment. It’s no secret that men have an almost symbiotic relationship to their motorcycles because of the sheer joy that riding brings, the pride of demonstrated self-reliance, but also the ego boost.

The bike becomes an extension of yourself. How can you look much cooler, we think? A sparkling motorcycle, leather jacket, windswept white hair, dark glasses, a tan? The epitome of roughhewn American power and masculine confidence. Women, you are certain, adore you on your polished iron horse.

Until, of course, your iron horse drops dead in heavy traffic.

You try to restart. You try again. Your body slouches. Slowly, you dismount, your leather jacket feeling suddenly like a wet blanket.

As your helmet heats your brain, you walk slowly around your expired vehicle, helpless and humiliated. Your shiny iron horse is a dull dead cow in the middle of traffic. You check the fuel level. All OK. Trucks and cars slow down, stop or swerve and begin blowing their horns.

Having tried many times to start it, I got back on the bike to make one more futile attempt. The grind of a starter that won’t catch is much like a dead cow expelling its last breath—a sad hapless sound. What could I do?

One thing certain: I had to move the bike away from the median across the road and out of the traffic. Soon. It was feeling more and more dangerous. as speeding cars veered off course, narrowly missing me.

Have I mentioned that my motorcycle weighs more than 800 pounds? Pushing it across the road to a parking lot was nearly impossible for me.

Sinking into depression, slumped over the now useless motorcycle, I was a defeated warrior.

Suddenly, a huge pickup truck pulled up on the other side of the median, going the other way.  A young man rolled down his window and asked: “Do you need some help?”

It’s no secret that men have an almost symbiotic relationship to their motorcycles because of the sheer joy that riding brings, the pride of demonstrated self-reliance, but also the ego BOOST.

“Excuse me?” (I’m hard of hearing and background noise makes it worse.)

Louder: “Do you need some help?”

He appeared to be in his mid-20s. The woman beside him was about his age.

“Yes, I really do need help.”

“OK. Stay right there. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

And he sped off.

I got goosebumps all over my upper body. Kindness often makes me cry. I held it back.

A few moments later, I turned to see the enormous chromed front grill of a Ford truck, just inches behind me. The young man climbed out of his truck.

“We must get you off this road. It’s dangerous.”

Cars kept whooshing by, barely missing us.

“I know.”

“Push it over to the parking lot,” he said.

“I can’t do that. It’s way too heavy for me.”

“We can do it together.”

He got on the other side of the bike, and, together, we began to slowly walk it down the middle of the road to the entrance of a parking area. His girlfriend had slipped behind the wheel of the truck and was following us so closely that no cars could come anywhere near us. The horns had stopped.

He and I pushed the bike, she had our back in the pickup. I was overwhelmed.

What is it about the emotion of thankfulness that is so mysterious? Anger produces an obvious rush of adrenalin. Humor is a palpable lightheadedness, a feeling of letting go.

Thankfulness seems to induce a filling up and then an overflowing. whole body picks up the message as we feel we are drifting on air like a hawk, moved by a sudden updraft.

It would be an exaggeration to say “we” pushed the motorcycle toward the parking lot, but at least I held on to one handlebar. I was breathless and speechless. But not the young man. He was bursting with the energy of life.

“My name is Robert,” he introduced himself. “What’s yours?”

“Craig.”

“So nice to meet you, Craig.”

“Yes, same here. I can’t thank you enough for your help. You really saved me.”

There was a pause, while I huffed and puffed trying to do my share of the work.

And then he said:  “You’re welcome, Craig. This is what communities do.”