I could not have said it better myself when this guy explains how God understands "why motorcyclists skip church":
"Now let me tell you about 178. Of the 5 roads that go from the SC Piedmont up the Blue Wall, 178 is the best. It is the longest, the cleanest, the curviest. It makes the Dragon look like a garter snake. She is the Queen of Roads and she eats bikes--and bikers--every year.
Before I ever put my a-55 on a bike I got stuck in a massive traffic jam once in RockyBottom. Bike and car had collided. Head on. Never found out who was at fault, but there was nothing left of the bike and the rider was being airlifted out.
That will be the fear in a man, let me tell ya.
But 178 is still my favorite road.
I have heard some say that motorcycling brings them balance. I've said it too, but it's a damned lie. Motorcycling can't bring you balance any more than cocaine does. It's a drug. It makes you feel good. It obliterates the pain. I'm always amazed how much Other Stuff disappears when I'm busy thinking about not scattering little bits of me and the Zuk over the side of a mountain. Stuff like whether the girl who took my heart to New York is going to bring it back this fall, and whether I can keep from going crazy till I see her...
Trying to explain this to people who don't ride--or who only ride Slow Bikes That Can't Corner--is criminally futile. Don't do it. If you find yourself having to justify the Ride to your friends--shut up and either sell the bike or spend more time riding. Or take your friend bike shopping.
Riding is arguably self-destructive, purely as a matter of statistics. For x number of years you are on the road, the odds of you setting the bike down while moving exponentially approaches 1. Motorcyclist knew about the Hockey Stick back when Al Gore was still in diapers. My mom rarely tires of pointing this danger out.
"Yes, Ma," I reply. She knows what's coming.
"I know. If it weren't dangerous it wouldn't be fun."
I wasn't thinking about this yesterday. All I thought about was the road. Two cylinders, two wheels. Trying to keep my skin intact, riding on the Black Magic that we call 178, feeling what bike was telling me about the road. I may have skipped church, but I was praying the bike through some of those corners...
It was beautiful.
I think God understands why motorcyclists skip church.
