The Church of the Motorcycle

I went for a long ride on Sunday while my wife and daughters went to church.

My sister Mindy passed away last week. I didn't feel like talking with anyone at church about it just yet.

I didn't feel much like talking.

So I skipped church and went for a long ride along the Willapa Bay road to the Long Beach Peninsula.

The bay road is full of perfect curves and natural beauty. I listened to the music of the engine.

We used to live and work on the Peninsula. I used to drive this road every day, but I tried never to take it for granted.

Long Island, Baby Island off to my right, the great wood of the Willapa Hills to my left, mudflats shinning silver in the sun. Motorcycles move with your mind, they become a part of you on twisting roads like this. Shifts and brake, twist and accelerate, poetry and prayers.

At the beach, I rode past the apartments where Amy and I lived the first year we were married. I rode my bike up to the Beard's Hollow overlook and watched the waves crash against the shore. This used to be just a gravel pull out over the steep cliffs. So much has changed over the years. Now it is paved and dotted with tourists. It used to be a secret place. Discovered by others now, it is still a great place to listen and watch the ocean pound away at endless time.

There was little traffic on a Sunday morning, a few RVs and other people on bikes. I was unhurried, I made it back to Grandma Nelson's just in time for Sunday dinner, but was tempted to go out riding again.

There are times when I think I'll sell this old motorcycle ... but never when I'm riding it.