Those who’ve followed me for awhile know that I’ve been having issues with my bike. I know exactly what’s going on, but still, it’s taking longer than I had hoped to get her back on the road.

It all started when I drained my tank last fall to send my tins down to Arizona so that my friend, Jason, at HellcatCustoms could paint them. He did an amazing job, and when I got them back, I excitedly put the bike back together and filled it up with gas.

And that was my problem.

What I should have done was clean the tank first. You see, my bike (and tank) are old. I ride a 1994 Dyna WideGlide. It has over 200,000 kms. With the tank empty for five months, rust built up in it. Rust that I should have cleaned out before reinstalling it.

The rust made it through the filter and into my carb.

After trying a whole bunch of things, I finally figured out what was going on. And so, a few weeks ago, I pulled the tank back off, cleaned it out (filling it half full with soap & water, dropping in about a dozen nuts and bolts, and shaking it like mad). After it was cleaned, I “Kreemed” the tank. Basically putting a new coating inside the tank. Rust problem was solved.

Or so I thought. I still had issues with the carb. I was still getting a bit of crap in the gas. Finally, this weekend, I figured it out. The accelerator pump has a diaphragm that was breaking apart.

So, new kit is ordered and should be in tomorrow. Hopefully by this time tomorrow, the bike will be up and running like new.

So, why am I calling this post “The Bond”? Great question. Glad you asked.

During this entire ordeal, many of you have seen my comments about enjoying Heather’s bike. She has been great at letting me take out her 2002 Electra Glide whenever mine was on the fritz. I’ve probably put as many miles on her bike as on mine this year. And, I love her bike. In fact, I have basically converted over to the “couch-side” and am ready to give up the Dyna for a little more comfort.

That is until I get on my Dyna. When she’s running right, I fall in love all over again. There is a connection that I have with this bike. One that is difficult to explain. One that only a few people – those who ride – can understand. We’ve been across the U.S. together. She never let me down once during that long road trip.

As I sit here tonight, in my backyard, with the garage open, I look over at her. She’s sitting there patiently. Her carb is apart. I don’t think she’s enjoying this any more than I am. She wants to run. She wants to roar. She wants me to take her out for a good long ride.

Hopefully this week.

He looked to be around nine or ten years old. He was straddling a bicycle, his right leg on the pedal, his left on the ground. His eyes stared at the ground about ten feet in front of his bike. He was focused. I could tell that he had tuned out the busy street where cars and motorcycles rushed passed, their drivers focused on all the things that demanded their time and energy.

It was a puddle that had grabbed the boys attention. It was about three feet wide. The rain that fell about an hour before had created it. The same rain that had caused me to grumble as I realized my bike would need a good cleaning when I got home. A rain that I knew was needed in Ottawa, but I wished had fallen during the night rather than when I was trying to cross town on my bike.

The boy wasn’t concerned about the timing of the rain. He wasn’t thinking about deadlines or responsibilities or anything else that was consuming my thoughts. No, the boy had only one thought in his head. I know, because I have no doubt that he was thinking the very same thing I would have been thinking about when I was nine or ten years old.

In his thoughts, he was Evel Knievel. He was staring out over a huge river. He had once chance to cross to the other side without being swept away by the rushing water. He was getting ready, psyching himself up for the world record jump he was about to attempt.

Just as I passed him, I saw a smile cross his face. It was a huge grin. It was the grin of a champion. I saw him lift up on the right foot, the one already on the pedal, as he lifted his left foot off of the ground. It was time, he was going for it.

Did he make it? I don’t know. I tried to watch in my mirror, but the mirrors on my bike are more for show that actual practical use. I couldn’t tell how the daredevil did with his massive jump, but I knew it really didn’t matter. If he made it, he would hear the roar of cheers from the crowd inside his head. If not, he would be imagining his front tire making the other bank, and a miraculous recovery as he managed to get the bike over the other side.

Suddenly, I wasn’t 43 and worried about all I had to do that day. My thoughts went from my dirty bike, the sermon I had to preach the next day, and the yard that still had so much work before it was complete.

I was nine or ten. I flicked the throttle of my WideGlide and heard it roar. I used to put playing cards in my spokes to make noise. Now, I had the real thing. I was a child again, trying to avoid the land mines that had been placed in my path. My adult brain calls them potholes, but at that moment, I was rushing through a maze of bombs in order to save the world.

It didn’t last long, but for a few minutes, I once again enjoyed the wonder of seeing life through the eyes of a child. I have a young Evel Knievel to thank for that.

Why don’t you take time to open your eyes today?

Now, I have all kinds of thoughts to share with you. However, two of the things I’ve been up to seem to fit together, so let me share them with you and throw out a thought about them. One has to do with my bike, the other is about digging holes.

So, first my bike. I love my 94 Dyna WideGlide. Sure it has over 206,000 KMS on it. Sure, the frame is in need of some paint. But, it’s a beautiful bike. It had a “cool factor” long before my good friend Jason from HellCat Customs painted it this past winter. But that paint job raised the “awesomeness” of the bike more than a few notches.

Still, I think I’m getting old. This may be my last summer on the Dyna. I’m pretty sure I am ready to look into a “Geezer-Glide”. Heather’s complaining that she’s constantly having to clean my drool off of her ’02 Electra-Glide. I wont lie, I love riding her bike. I think I want one.

But, for now, I’m still on my Dyna. When it’s running right. Not that it’s been misbehaving, it just needed a little care. So, a month ago, I pulled out the wiring harness and, with the help of a friend, rewired most of the bike. I was good to go.

Except I wasn’t good to go.

The bike has continued to be finicky. Some mornings, it fights with me to start. In the past, this bike fired up first attempt. This year, there have been days when I wondered if it was going to start at all.

Then, in the past week, it’s started to hesitate, backfire, chug along at low speed. It seemed like it was starving for fuel. Last Thursday, I barely got to church on it. I was frustrated. In the past year, almost every aspect of the electrical had been replaced (stator, regulator, coil, plug wires, etc).

So, on Saturday, I pulled the float bowl. Sure enough, there was dirt. Lots of crap. That meant, pulling the tank and inspecting the inline fuel filter on my Pingle petcock. What I found was incredible. To suggest there was rust in the tank would be … well, an understatement. And so, I spent the weekend cleaning the tank, the carb, and even the fuel lines themselves.

Yesterday, I finally got it all back together and took it for a spin. I was so excited to finally get it out and running right. Except two blocks later, it was back to sputtering. I headed home, checked the bowl again. More dirt. It took three attempts before I cleaned out all of the crap. And then, because the bike had been starving for fuel before, I needed to adjust the settings on my S&S Super E. Finally, around 7:30 last night, I took the bike out and she ran like she was brand new. What a beautiful ride it was.

While I was doing that, my buddy, who happens to own his own home renovation business (and who is currently building this bike), was digging holes in my backyard. Actually, he was digging holes in the backyards of about six of my neighbours. You see, he’s replacing all the fences. At first glance, it looked like the holes were going to be fairly easy to dig. But, a foot or two down, he ran into rock. Lots of rock. An easy job suddenly began a very difficult one.

So, what do these stories have in common? Well, sometimes we let things go and before you know it, the dirt inside begins to affect how we live. It clogs our sense of compassion, our love for family, and our sense of purpose. Often it happens slowly. We can sense something’s just not right, but we struggle with figuring out what that something is.

If we rely only on other people to determine what might be wrong, we could be fooled into a false sense of security. You see, sometimes, all others see is the exterior. To them, everything looks fine, and they may even tell you that. But they don’t see the rock that is beneath the soil. They don’t realize that things are not as good below the surface.

Here’s the thing. God does. God sees the rocks, he knows there is dirt in the tank, he can even let you know when the carb needs a little tuning. The question is: have you asked him? Have you invited God to take inventory of your life and help you see what might be wrong inside?

David, who was once king of Israel, wrote a song that is found in Psalm 139:23-24. In it he wrote these words: Search me, O God and know my heart.

Perhaps those are good words to pray. I know I need to.

Today's Office

It’s great. Of course, the some would suggest that it would be even better if I didn’t go online while sitting here. At this moment, while Scott Williams continues to send me boring emails (Scott: I told you I’d mention it), I tend to agree. The advantage of not being online is no more emails from him. But, then again, I wouldn’t be able to write this blog, share this experience with the rest of you, and access some of the files I need in order to work on the stuff I’m doing today.

It’s been an interesting few weeks for me. As many of you know, last week I focused most of my time on standing with my close friends, Doug & Kim Stringer after the loss of their 17 year old son, David. Words cannot really describe what that was like.

Now, as I sit here considering last week, I find myself wanting to hit the reset button. I want to take time to focus again on what’s important. Family, friends, loved ones, living out purpose, making a difference in the lives of those nearest to you. All of these things are vital. A lot of people want to know what God’s will is for their life. I think if you focus on these things, you’ll likely figure it out.

Earlier this week, I sent out a very simple tweet: “Dear God: Thank You.” I meant it. I still mean it. As I sit here, contemplating so many different things, it seems like those are the most fitting words to say. Thank you, God, that no matter what the day may bring, you are there. We don’t face it alone.

It’s an incredible thought. One that I was reminded of many times the past few weeks.

Now, time to enjoy more of this scenery.

How is it that in 2010, people can still be so gullible that they believe everything they read, or see on television, without ever checking the facts? Is it because they are just too lazy to actually look into it? Or is it because we really do want to simply trust those who deliver the news or speak with authority?

As a preacher, I tell people all the time, “Don’t just believe something because I say it’s true. Look into it for yourself. Come to your own conclusion. If you accept something as a spiritual truth just because I’m telling you it is, then you’re foolish.” I say that because I’ve seen far too many people get hooked into cultish-type groups simply because they don’t take the time to discover spiritual truth for themselves.

Since I encourage those who sit under my teaching to do this, I don’t think I’m out of line to suggest that we do it when it comes to others who speak with authority.

Over the past week, I have found myself becoming a news-junkie again. For a season, I was hardly reading any news reports or watching much more than the half hour evening news, but this past week, I’ve been flipping back and forth between CNN and CBC. And it’s amazed me just lazy reporting has become. Much of the stuff that is reported is completely inaccurate. Other stuff contains just enough truth to make the listener buy it fully.

I understand why it’s this way. The news media needs quick, catchy headlines. They needs stories that will cause the listener to tune in. It’s all about grabbing our emotions and our attention. CBC currently has a commercial promoting their news channel. In the commercial, the question is asked, “What makes a great story?” All of the recognizable news personalities answer it with one or two words. What I found interesting is that not one of them used the words truth or accuracy in answering what makes a good story.

As I biker, I’m used to seeing inaccuracies in the media. News reports refer to motorcycle gangs even though there is no such thing. I am not aware of a single motorcycle group that refers to itself as a gang. Sensationalized headlines paint every guy riding a Harley as potential bad news. And people buy it, hook, line, and sinker.

Even the police buy into it. Now, I know a lot of great police officers. In fact, 90% of them are amazing people doing an amazing, thankless job. And yet, let’s be honest, they are indoctrinated into believing that bikers are guilty until found innocent. As a result, they truly believe they are in the right when they pull over a biker for no reason.

I know some of you think that this is a rant because I was stopped yesterday. It’s not. The officer who pulled me over was very nice. I had no issue with him. Actually, I felt sorry for him. He pulled me over for no reason other than how I looked. Yes, profiling. He truly believed that it was legitimate to use the excuse, “Just checking paperwork” as a reason for pulling over a law-abiding citizen. He could have run my license plate while following me and discovered that there are no outstanding warrants, no criminal charges, no reason to pull me over, but all he saw was a biker, and stopped me because bikers are bad.

I spoke with a member of a club this past weekend who told me about having dinner with his brother and his new girlfriend. The girlfriend asked the biker why he feels it’s okay to pimp out girls for prostitution. The biker laughed and asked her why she thought he was a pimp. She told him it was because he was a member of that club, and from what she understood, all the members of that club had prostitutes working for them. Now, this guy has a 9 to 5 job (and yes, I’ve seen him at his job). He also works two other jobs to bring in extra money. He pays taxes on all three jobs. He works like a dog. And yet, he’s painted with a brush simply because of a patch on his back.

My point in all this rambling is this: in this day and age, when there is so many ways to check out facts, why do we as a culture just accept what authorities and news outlets tell us is true? Why don’t we take the time to actually research a few things and discover truth for ourselves? I challenge people to do that with spiritual things, and I try to make the effort to do it with every other area of my life.

What about you?

Okay, maybe that’s not exactly true. Maybe what really happened was I got the wood home, stood looking at the massive pile and began to whimper a little. Maybe, in a moment of panic, I called my buddy up who just happens to thrive at this sort of thing, and maybe he came over and built a garden in the back yard while I fetched whatever materials he needed me to get. Maybe neighbours did stand in their windows, shaking their heads in disbelief that a bad ass biker could be so “constructionally-challenged.” Maybe.

We started building around 1:30pm and it was done by 4:30pm. Not bad for an afternoon of work! However, by 6:00pm, I was done. Exhausted. Dead. I fought to keep my eyes open. At 9pm, I headed to bed. By 9:30pm, I was handing the remote to Heather and drifting off to sleep, dreaming of sitting in front of my computer, writing articles, blogs, sermons, rather than swinging hammers and lifting stuff.

I woke up this morning ready to enjoy a fresh tomato from my newly built garden. Okay, just kidding, I knew there wouldn’t be tomatoes yet, after all, we still need to fill the thing with dirt and actually plant something. But, I did look out my living room window and smile with a sense of accomplishment at the beautiful structure that sits at the far end of my backyard.

Have you ever noticed how finishing a project can bring a sense of reward? Even though it was my buddy who did most of the work, I still feel amazing this morning knowing that I had a hand in seeing something built up from nothing. And, it’s not even finished! I can’t wait to see it filled with vegetables.

I think there are times when God looks at us in that way. His creation, still growing, still under construction. I think he looks at us and smiles and thinks to himself, I built him. I designed her. He knows we’re not done. This journey of becoming the very person we are meant to be is ongoing. While we may be bearing fruit, there is more to come. I’m sure he can’t wait. I’m sure he gets excited at the potential he sees in his creation. For God, it’s an exciting process.

Do you enjoy the journey? Do you stop and relish the accomplishments along the way? The moments when one part of the construction process is finished? Why not take a minute today and consider the areas of your life where there has been success. Enjoy those victories before you move on to the next area that needs change.

Off to grab my hammer … something needs building!

I know what you’re thinking. HUH?!? YOU? Introvert? Shy? Private? Yeah, and I’m secretly a Billionaire who prefers to live a rather simple life.

It’s true. At least it’s how I see myself. Let me explain. An introvert is someone who is predominantly concerned with their own thoughts and feelings rather than with external things. Yes, we usually define an introvert as someone who is simply shy and quiet, and while these are characteristics of an introvert, the psychology of an introvert goes much deeper than simply shyness. An introvert goes into a large gathering and wants to know how they can “hide” in the crowd. They look for ways to lurk in the shadows others in the room. Watch me on a Thursday night at Bikers’ Church, and you’ll notice I disappear from time to time. I need to get away from the crowds and focus.

I’m also fairly shy. I struggle with meeting new people. I battle insecurities about being perceived as a dork when talking to someone for the first time (I know, some of you want to yell out, TOO LATE!). And yet, in my job, I am around people all the time. I am expected to carry the conversation when meeting someone for the first time. In my head, I often have to remind myself that I am expected to not be shy. And so, I put a lot of energy into overcoming the shyness when talking to someone new.

Finally, I’m a fairly private person. This one likely causes the most chuckles. After all, I write a blog, share many personal stories in my weekly talks, and seem to be a very open book for anyone who wants to examine my life. And yet, it’s all very controlled. Some of you understand what I’m saying immediately. I share my life on my terms. In my way. Everything I write is thought through. Yes, I’m fairly open about things, but I do so with a purpose and a plan.

I was reminded of this last one when I was about to open the box with my paint job from Arizona. A number of twitter friends were waiting with excitement to see my reaction when opening the box. Heather was poised with the camera, clicking away as I pulled each piece out of the packing beans. It was one of the most uncomfortable feelings in the world. Not because I didn’t want to share the experience with my friends, but because I wanted to have a moment to know how I felt about the paint before anyone else saw how I felt. Of course, I was blown away and very excited, but that’s not the point. The point is, I wasn’t in control of how my reaction would be viewed. It’s the same reason I don’t enjoy surprise parties, or opening gifts in front of others. Weird, huh?

The thing is, I’m perceived very differently than I see myself. Most people wouldn’t describe me as an introvert, shy, or private. In fact, most would see me the very opposite of how I see myself.

What about you? Do people see you the way you see yourself?

I had an interesting conversation with someone the other day who suggested that you can’t control how someone perceives you. And that’s true, to a point. Their perception of you is going to be filtered through their own biases. For instance, when I pull up to a light riding my WideGlide, holding on to my Ape Hangers, my pipes rumbling loudly, people around me respond very differently. Some roll up their windows and look straight ahead. Others yell out to me, “Nice bike!” I’ve had people standing at bus stops wave to me. Kids, especially boys, get excited and stare. When I wave to them, they smile from ear to ear. Sometimes, mom’s get nervous and try to get the kid to look away. Other times, the mom’s seem as thrilled as the child. Yet, when I pull up to the same intersection in my car, there is no reaction.

The same is true when I walk into a coffee shop with my MacBook in hand. If I’m wearing a Sens jersey, I’m just another geek who likes hockey. But if I’ve got my leather jacket on, or a t-shirt that shows off my tattoos, I’m a biker who probably stole a MacBook!

So, who are you really? Are you the person you see yourself as, or are you the person others perceive you to be?

Or, could there be a third option? Maybe we are the person God designed us to be. Some of us have figured out who that is, while others are still on the journey of discovering who we were meant to be. But maybe, that third option … the one God created us to be is somewhere in the middle of the other two. Maybe.

What are your thoughts?

So, let me tell you a little of my journey.

I wasn’t born into a biker family. But I wasn’t born into a preacher’s family either. My natural father was a bank robber. In fact, he went to jail before my second birthday, and spent the next fifteen years behind bars. He did break out of prison on a few occasions. In the early 70′s, he ended up in a shoot out in downtown Ottawa. While he was unharmed, he was arrested and put back in jail. To be honest, I don’t remember any of the incidents with my dad growing up. For some reason I believed he had died when I was a baby (not sure if someone told me that, of if I just assumed it). Mind you, I did grow up always wanting to be the robber when I played “Cops & Robbers” with my friends!

I wasn’t overly close with the Dale side of the family, although I did spend time with my Aunts and Uncles. In fact, it was a couple of my Aunts who taught me to smoke when I was nine! A habit I continued on and off until I was sixteen. The Dale side of the family struggled with a lot of pain. One Aunt committed suicide, my Uncle Terry was beaten to death in 1990, and another Aunt was killed when the small plane she was a passenger on crashed.

I was a loner growing up. For a number of reasons, my mom moved often. In fact, I couldn’t begin to name all of the different schools I attended growing up. My mom cared for my brother (who is five years older), my sister (1.5 years younger), and myself. She was my hero, and I wrote about her here. After her death, my sister discovered that there were actually two other siblings. A brother and a sister who were born between my brother and I. For some reason, she gave them up. Perhaps some day I’ll meet them.

When I was thirteen, my mom met (and married) Gary, an old school biker. It was then that my passion for riding became a reality. I bought my first dirt bike, and along with my step-brother, rode every day regardless of the weather. In his younger days, Gary had been a member of an outlaw motorcycle club. While he wasn’t riding with the club anymore, he was still friends with a lot of club guys. I can remember coming home and finding thirty Harleys parked outside my house. I spent time with guys named “Mountain Man”. I learned to ride with many of them.

A few years later, my mom began to search for meaning. That search led her to a church, where she turned her life over to God. In the Fall of 1982, our family began attending church. I had no interest in anything spiritual, and believed that church was for old people, women, and sissy guys. No real, tough guy would ever be a Christian.

That opinion changed a few month later when the preacher shared the story of Jesus. As I listened to what Jesus experienced on the Cross – the punishment that he took upon his body – I was in awe. Anyone who could be a strong as Jesus was worthy of my respect. I began a journey of discovering him. A journey I have continued to this day.

LIfe wasn’t easy after I began my spiritual journey. I thought it would be. I thought that being a Christian would mean that everything in life would begin to go better. I thought I would have no more problems. No more challenges.

That all changed on January 9, 1983. The day my house blew up. But, I’ll save that, and the rest of the story, for tomorrow.

Yeah, I’ve heard them all a hundred times. And every time someone brings up another question, I think of the cliche statement, “If I have to explain, you wouldn’t understand.”

How do you explain a passion to someone? I’m not talking about those who ride for fairly practical reasons: cheaper on gas (most often, this isn’t actually true), faster commute, easier to park than a car, etc.

But I don’t ride because of some practical reason. In fact, many times, it is less practical for me to jump on my bike than it is to climb into a car. I carry a laptop with me every day. In the winter months, I simply toss my bag (along with my lunch) on the car seat beside me. During riding season, I carry my bag over my shoulder, making sure I have it set just right so that it doesn’t interfere with my arms. Or, I bungie it to the back of my bike, adding another five to ten minutes to my routine before I can head out from the house. No, it’s not very practical.

I certainly don’t save gas during the riding season. When I’m in my car, I find the quickest and shortest route to my office. The vehicle is just a box getting me from point A to point B. On my bike, I debate how long I can go before I have to get to the office. Often I’ll take the long way … the very long way.

Every year, I read about people killed or seriously injured on their motorcycle. I’ve watched many friends go down. I’ve officiated the funerals of a few who have paid the ultimate price. I’ve even experienced my own accident. It’s not fun. And yet, none of these experiences keeps me from my machine. It calls to me and I can’t wait for the next time I press the starter button and hear her roar.

So, why do I ride? Because I’m an addict. I’m addicted to the feeling I have every time I open the throttle and feel the power pull me down the highway. I’m addicted to the peace I experience as I get alone with my thoughts and process whatever may be going on in my life at that moment. I’m an addict to the connection I have with God when I enjoy the incredible openness of seeing his creation from a perspective you simply cannot get in a car.

I’m also addicted to the connections I’ve made with other bikers. While there are idiots in every lifestyle, I am constantly amazed at the number of incredible people I’ve had the honour of getting to know within the biker world. Some are local, some are hundreds if not thousands of miles away. All hold a special place in my heart. It was the love and passion of riding that connected us all.

I write these words and I find myself frustrated at my inability to explain it. Perhaps it really is true … it can’t be explained to those who have not experienced it. It is something you simply understand, or you don’t.

I think it’s time to ride.