This is one of a series of blog posts about my summer motorcycle travels.
Blanche DuBois absolutely had it right when she says in A Streetcar Named Desire,“I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
As I write this, I’m on a pair of flights from Boise to Dallas/Fort Worth to central Nebraska. How I managed to get from the waiting room of the ER in McCall, Idaho to this point is a story of great effort by both close friends and absolute strangers. It’s also a lesson against the cynicism of our times that tells us that we can receive small miracles of the spirit from people of very different faiths and backgrounds.
McCall is a lovely place to be, and I’m sure I would love going on vacation there, but it was almost impossible to find a ride back to the motel for me and a way for Howard to get back to the ER to pick up my bike. The nice lady with long, grey hair who took my insurance information offered to give us rides once she got off work at 9 p.m., but that was still a long ways off. But she said she would see what she could do.
Before long a man came out wearing a hospital custodian’s uniform. He had a shaved head with giant spider tattooed on his skull. He approached us and asked, “Did you need a ride? I’m on my dinner break.”
Yes, as a matter of fact, we did need a ride. And this man, whom I had never met before in my life, gave up his dinner break to ferry us to the hotel. I offered him $20 for his efforts, but he said, ‘No, I’m just helping.’ This was a man who made his living cleaning floors at a small hospital. Whom I suspect could have used the money. But it was more important for this man with a scary tattoo across the top of his head to help a pair of strangers in need.
He was just the first of a series of miracles of the spirit to touch us that evening and into the next day.
While I was still in the ER, I finally called Pam to give her my diagnosis. There was almost no cell service within the hospital, so we had several dropped connections, so it was challenging getting out the message that I was hurt, but ok. Finally, my Dear Wife and I relied on text messages. And while Pam was clearly not happy with me, she sounded relieved that I was ok and that I had Howard there to help me. That task aside, it was time to figure out how I was going to travel the 1,150 miles between McCall and Kearney without being able to walk without crutches.
Pizza in our room was a pretty good late dinner after a long day of riding and going to the ER.
My next call was to one of my other riding buddies, Bishop Matthew Riegel, who can use his special bishop powers to find helpful clergy anywhere in the country. Unfortunately, there were no ELCA churches in the area (Matt’s denomination), but he promised to keep working late into the night to see what he could do.
I also posted a plea for help to an Iron Butt Association discussion board on Facebook, hoping someone there might help. Again, McCall is a little, remote town, and there was no one there with an immediate connection. But Tyler Risk, a rider I’ve never met or talked with before, said “I’ve got some ideas. Let me see what I can do.”
Next, I called MedJet to get my bike shipped home. MedJet is a membership organization that’s kind of like an insurance company, except it’s not. Were I to have been in a serious accident that required me to be admitted to the hospital, MedJet would have gotten me flown to my home hospital once my condition was stabilized, even if it involved them chartering a private jet with a nurse. Fortunately, I didn’t need that service! More prosaically, they will get your bike shipped home if you are too injured to continue your ride. That would be me.
A helpful operator at MedJet put me in touch with the transportation coordinator, and before I went to sleep, I had arrangements mostly completed for the bike. (Yes, I highly recommend MedJet, and not just because my Dear Wife won’t let me ride without it.)
I also got a flight booked for two days later from Boise to the airport closest to my home. It was expensive, but such is life. I still needed a place to store my bike till it got picked up in a week or two by the shipping company, I needed a way to ship my riding gear home, and I needed a ride to Boise, which was a couple of hours away.
Then, I went to sleep. It had been too late when I got out of the ER to fill my script for narcotics, and fortunately all I really needed were heroic doses of ibuprofen.
When I woke up early Wednesday morning, I had a call from a Lance in Boise who was a motorcyclist, who knew someone in Utah (I think) who knew Tyler on Facebook, who had said she might know someone who could help. Lance had two names for me to call in McCall who could help me with both logistics and finding a ride.
I then spoke to Bishop Matt, who had contacted Pastor Robin of the local Missouri Synod Lutheran church. Pastor Robin, it turned out, already knew who I was because he had been in the ER with his wife at the same time I was there, and he saw me talking with the trauma nurse. He let me store my bike at the church until the shipping company could take it, and agreed to get my gear shipped. He also had to drive Howard back to the hotel after he delivered my bike to the church.
As with the Man With The Spider Tattoo, Pastor Robin refused any money to pay for the shipping. (I’ve shipped that gear before; it’s expensive.) He said it was his pleasure to do so. This was my second miracle of the spirit. Pastor Robin had no direct connection to Bishop Matt or me, but when he got an early morning e-mail asking for help, he responded.
I was still in need of my ride to Boise. I was getting ready to start calling the people Lance had recommended to me, when Pastor Robin called back. The man who owned a small, local convenience store who just sold my new friend a Diet Coke, said he would take me to Boise that afternoon when he went to pick up his wife at the airport. Pastor Robin told me that David was a great guy and a devout Mormon who would be happy to help me. A couple of hours later, David came by with his SUV, and I had a comfortable ride and an enjoyable conversation. My offer of gas money was politely refused. He said he was going there anyway, and that he wanted to help. David was my next miracle of the spirit.
And if any of these fine people had not come through for me, I still had several people from the motorcycling community who were willing to try to find me help.
All in all, I would have much rather not fallen and still be on my trip, riding into Missoula, Montana. But being reminded how wonderful and caring human beings can be when a wounded stranger shows up in their midst is amazing.
I could not have gotten through all this without the help of my friends Howard and Bishop Matt, of course. I always know I can count on them – and have on many occasions. And the support of my Dear Wife is always essential. But it was the kindness of strangers, from a range of faith (and possibly no faith) backgrounds, who helped this motorcyclist find his way home.
My flight is now nearing my local airport where my youngest will pick me up, and then I will be very glad to be home.
The Platte River spread out below me was a welcome sight the I was nearing home.
But I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. As Shepherd Book said on the old series Firefly,“The journey is the worthier part.”
In a few days there will be an epilog, but this is the end of this journey.