As I unzipped and unsnapped and unbuckled the various and sundry layers of protection between myself and the elements, my fellow pastor classmates commented on my having ridden in.
In this rain? On this sort of day? Through the steel and asphalt blender of Washington rush hour traffic?
Yup, I say.
Similarly, my sealing myself back up into my armored riding gear at the far end of the day seems to stir response. You're riding in this? Wow. Our prayers go with you. You're nuts.
Which, of course, I am.
But as my motorcycle thrums away from campus, the loner and the rebel, leaving my colleagues behind to socialize and interact, I find myself enjoying the peculiar irony of my Brando-esque departure. Yeah, I'm getting my motor running, and I'm heading out on the highway. But am I looking for adventure or whatever comes my way?
Nah. I'm just going home to take my son to drums, or to pick my other son up from swimming, or to go see a school play, or to get back early so that I can do the laundry.
Such a rebel.
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