This poem has been revised many times. It is getting much closer to what I want it to be. Yes, I used to ride motorcycles. I wrecked several times, including a crash where my bike stuck into the side of a Ford Escort and I flew over, landing in the road. By the time I came back to consciousness, the emergency crew had arrived. A full-face helmet saved my head (and life). I had many other close calls. Clearly, God preserved my life each time as he continued to pursue me by his mercy and grace. In a very real way, he rode with me. In an earlier version of this poem I said, “Only he could look me in the eyes at speeds of 80 and above.” He never backed down or gave up on me. This poem, one of the first I ever wrote, continues to be an encouraging reminder of my Savior’s faithfulness. I hope it encourages you as well. Thanks for reading.
I remember the asphalt…how it let me
live outside the lines on a bike.
I remember a rowdy night-spot
where speed got up to pick a fight.
My bright wheels cannot forget: boots,
a leather jacket, and turns
that made me lean down to the pegs.
The boundary blurred
till hardtop hit like hard times.
I recall the throttle: a twist and clutch
made emblems in the road.
It sounded good, but ditches stood
nearby; the pavement took its toll.
Parking lots demanded wheelies.
I never did say no to them.
Close calls, falls, and crashes…
some could lay it down, but I wrecked.
My graceful arc crossed double lines.
Still, I did not slow the pace. Then,
one day a graceful rider caught me.
How he chased! How his engine raced!
He had new tires and tattoos of fire.
His eyes were like mirrors,
and when I looked I shattered.
But to each piece he whispered;
for every shard he stood and shouted.
His voice could not be unkind.
He made pursuit his standard.
His hands, like living stone, never tired.
I rolled with bent desires,
but he anticipated every deviation.
He determined my progress;
he broke my bones, then mended.
I fled, until he pierced and purchased,
until he caught me with the look of love…
a look that saw a man born blind.
He gripped when my will failed.
He healed my road-rash knees.
He knew my make and model.
He saw parts no one sees.
Now I listen as gears make changes—
as rubber on roadway moves me
and I approach new signs and places.
As chain and sprocket go humbly
beneath, a narrow road unwinds.
