To be blessed is to be favored by God. At least, that’s how Wikipedia defines it.
The Blessing of the bikes happens every May in Baldwin, Michigan. Ten thousand motorcycles make their pilgrimage to the Holy Land (played by the Baldwin Airport in this case) in search of…I don’t know…divine intervention?
Does the creator of the universe really give a rat’s ass about my bike? This thought pretty much dominated my ride to Baldwin the Saturday before the event. So WWJR? A Goldwing? A Harley? Nah. I was thinking he, with his divine inspiration, would go for a Ducati, but those Romans didn’t really do him any favors did they? In the end, a co-worker suggested that Jesus would ride a Jet-Ski…on land. Awesome.
Since I’ve been riding, I haven’t missed the Blessing…well, that once. Five years ago I was working in South Carolina and wasn’t able to make it. My RC51 hadn’t been blessed. A year later it put me in a wheel chair for two months. And now that I think about it, I don’t believe my old man ever had his ’82 XV920 blessed. I threw it down a ditch when I was 18. And when I really think back, I don’t remember the JR50 ever making the trip. Perhaps that’s because I was only 7 years old. Still, Lord knows I ate enough dirt on that beast. Too much lead content and not enough Holy Spirit?
The Honda CL. My first bike. Yep, made the trip on that. No crashes.
The Kawasaki Eliminator? Blessed. Not so much as a speeding ticket.
I rode the ZRX to The Blessing in the snow one year. Kept the rubber side down.
The CB550 café? Never a problem, and darling of the ’08 Blessing.
Had the Monster there this year. So far, so good. Huh…
Coincidence? It’s gotta be. See, I’m not religious. Born, raised, and confirmed Catholic. I was an altar boy, then I got older, started questioning things…took Survey of the Old Testament and Western Civ back to back in college. Ironically, that crucified any faith I had left in me.
I’m member of my own religion, I guess. Is there such a thing as hopefully Agnostic?
Still, I’m putting up a strong argument against myself here. Every motorcycle I’ve ever owned, without exception, has ended up on top of me if it hadn’t been to that airport in Baldwin. All the bikes that were breathed on by God kept me out of trouble.
Alright, forget what I think. What are the cattle looking for? Ten thousand bikes can carry a lot of believers!
I know they’re not all there thinking their hog is going to heaven. Some want to camp and party and get drunk the night before. Some are vain weekend warriors, riding their kid’s college fund, piss-poor Frazetta Death Dealer air brushed on the tank. Some are just there using the destination as a destination…a reason to get out and ride. Some are just following friends, looking for a motorcycle show.
There are those who show up with crosses stitched to their leathers. Right wing Goldwing gangs that met in the church basement that morning over fresh coffee and day old doughnuts.
I’ll admit, it’s difficult to find Jesus through all the vendor’s Vietnamese made POW flags. But there is substance here. There is good at this gathering.
No beer in the streets. No smoky burnouts. I didn’t see a baby feeder all weekend, not out from under its “This bitch don’t fall off!” T-shirt, anyway. There was a huge, scary guy dressed head to toe in bear fur, but after listening to him converse, he seemed…well…like a big Teddy Bear. There’s definitely an air of Take it easy kids, this one’s for the Lord. People here are genuinely respectful, whether they’re a believer or not.
Bikes file into the airport Sunday morning and line up single file, a hundred rows deep. The riders walk around, looking at each others bikes, mostly afraid to talk to each other. Northerners can be so stand-offish. There are the ice breakers, bold men who ask bold questions like “What year is that?” It’s a start.
A local southern-fried cover band plays swamp music over too-loud distorted speakers as disciples ponder whether to eat vegetable covered brats or the more pedestrian burger. Pop cans are thrown into specially marked, plastic lined 50 gallon drums. Ten cents back for each returned pop can in the Great Lakes State, where early May is too cold for the bees to swarm.
At one o’clock in the afternoon, Gimme’ 3 Steps is cut short by an event organizer asking everybody to quiet as the Blessing is about to begin.
Seeing a man dressed in robes is an odd sight at a motorcycle rally. He seems out of place, like a…well…like a priest at a motorcycle rally. He adjusts the mic stand and raises his arms. There’s no big build up. You’d expect more pomp and circumstance, like he should be riding around in the Popemobile to the soundtrack of Amazing Grace. Instead it’s quick and to-the-point. Nice.
Nobody is making a peep. I’d be surprised if a tenth of the people here were good Christians (I’m certainly not), but it seems every last person understands that the holy man with the microphone wants to keep everybody safe. For that one minute, when a man is asking God to “Bless these motorcycles and keep their riders safe…” you could hear a pin drop on the runway. And regardless of your beliefs and habits, you can’t help but think there is something bigger happening. Many think it’s the Holy Spirit at work; I think it’s the human spirit. Either way, it’s a powerful thing.
The Blessing of the bikes happens every May in Baldwin, Michigan. Ten thousand motorcycles make their pilgrimage to the Holy Land (played by the Baldwin Airport in this case) in search of…I don’t know…divine intervention?
Does the creator of the universe really give a rat’s ass about my bike? This thought pretty much dominated my ride to Baldwin the Saturday before the event. So WWJR? A Goldwing? A Harley? Nah. I was thinking he, with his divine inspiration, would go for a Ducati, but those Romans didn’t really do him any favors did they? In the end, a co-worker suggested that Jesus would ride a Jet-Ski…on land. Awesome.
Since I’ve been riding, I haven’t missed the Blessing…well, that once. Five years ago I was working in South Carolina and wasn’t able to make it. My RC51 hadn’t been blessed. A year later it put me in a wheel chair for two months. And now that I think about it, I don’t believe my old man ever had his ’82 XV920 blessed. I threw it down a ditch when I was 18. And when I really think back, I don’t remember the JR50 ever making the trip. Perhaps that’s because I was only 7 years old. Still, Lord knows I ate enough dirt on that beast. Too much lead content and not enough Holy Spirit?
The Honda CL. My first bike. Yep, made the trip on that. No crashes.
The Kawasaki Eliminator? Blessed. Not so much as a speeding ticket.
I rode the ZRX to The Blessing in the snow one year. Kept the rubber side down.
The CB550 café? Never a problem, and darling of the ’08 Blessing.
Had the Monster there this year. So far, so good. Huh…
Coincidence? It’s gotta be. See, I’m not religious. Born, raised, and confirmed Catholic. I was an altar boy, then I got older, started questioning things…took Survey of the Old Testament and Western Civ back to back in college. Ironically, that crucified any faith I had left in me.
I’m member of my own religion, I guess. Is there such a thing as hopefully Agnostic?
Still, I’m putting up a strong argument against myself here. Every motorcycle I’ve ever owned, without exception, has ended up on top of me if it hadn’t been to that airport in Baldwin. All the bikes that were breathed on by God kept me out of trouble.
Alright, forget what I think. What are the cattle looking for? Ten thousand bikes can carry a lot of believers!
I know they’re not all there thinking their hog is going to heaven. Some want to camp and party and get drunk the night before. Some are vain weekend warriors, riding their kid’s college fund, piss-poor Frazetta Death Dealer air brushed on the tank. Some are just there using the destination as a destination…a reason to get out and ride. Some are just following friends, looking for a motorcycle show.There are those who show up with crosses stitched to their leathers. Right wing Goldwing gangs that met in the church basement that morning over fresh coffee and day old doughnuts.
I’ll admit, it’s difficult to find Jesus through all the vendor’s Vietnamese made POW flags. But there is substance here. There is good at this gathering.
No beer in the streets. No smoky burnouts. I didn’t see a baby feeder all weekend, not out from under its “This bitch don’t fall off!” T-shirt, anyway. There was a huge, scary guy dressed head to toe in bear fur, but after listening to him converse, he seemed…well…like a big Teddy Bear. There’s definitely an air of Take it easy kids, this one’s for the Lord. People here are genuinely respectful, whether they’re a believer or not.
Bikes file into the airport Sunday morning and line up single file, a hundred rows deep. The riders walk around, looking at each others bikes, mostly afraid to talk to each other. Northerners can be so stand-offish. There are the ice breakers, bold men who ask bold questions like “What year is that?” It’s a start.
A local southern-fried cover band plays swamp music over too-loud distorted speakers as disciples ponder whether to eat vegetable covered brats or the more pedestrian burger. Pop cans are thrown into specially marked, plastic lined 50 gallon drums. Ten cents back for each returned pop can in the Great Lakes State, where early May is too cold for the bees to swarm.
At one o’clock in the afternoon, Gimme’ 3 Steps is cut short by an event organizer asking everybody to quiet as the Blessing is about to begin.
Seeing a man dressed in robes is an odd sight at a motorcycle rally. He seems out of place, like a…well…like a priest at a motorcycle rally. He adjusts the mic stand and raises his arms. There’s no big build up. You’d expect more pomp and circumstance, like he should be riding around in the Popemobile to the soundtrack of Amazing Grace. Instead it’s quick and to-the-point. Nice.
Nobody is making a peep. I’d be surprised if a tenth of the people here were good Christians (I’m certainly not), but it seems every last person understands that the holy man with the microphone wants to keep everybody safe. For that one minute, when a man is asking God to “Bless these motorcycles and keep their riders safe…” you could hear a pin drop on the runway. And regardless of your beliefs and habits, you can’t help but think there is something bigger happening. Many think it’s the Holy Spirit at work; I think it’s the human spirit. Either way, it’s a powerful thing.
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