You are my people

I like to say I grew up on the back of a motorcycle. My dad and his stepdad owned matching Suzukis and enjoyed weekend rides in the mountains of northwest Arkansas. I often went with them. We would leave in the early hours before the sun rose high enough to bake both pavement and shoulders. I’d wrap my arms around my daddy’s waist and a bungee cord around mine, secured to the backrest in case I started to nod off on those sleepy Saturday mornings.

It always fascinated me that whenever we’d pass motorcycles coming toward us — usually people we did not know — my dad and the other drivers waved low to each other, a gesture that implied more than a simple hello. It communicated not only acceptance and camaraderie but also an unspoken message: you are one of my people.

When we rode that motorcycle we were part of something bigger, a special club, if linked by nothing more than our chosen mode of transportation. It was a bond which transcended socioeconomic, age, and racial lines.

Last weekend I once again witnessed that old, familiar wave between two motorcyclists, and I couldn’t help but wonder: what if the rest of us accepted each other so readily, without analysis or hesitation? Can you even imagine it?

Please visit me today at (in)courage for the rest of the post. I really hope you will!

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