I love the biker community. The other day, I set out on a solo ride through the desert. Two and a half hours in, I pulled into a lookout for a smoke and to take in the view. High 90s, sun beating down, and damn what a ride it had been.
While I stood there, a pack of French motorcyclists rolled up. My French is shaky at best, but I knew enough to catch when one of them asked for a cigarette. I obliged, of course.
When it was time to head out, I swung a leg over the bike, hit the starter. Nothing. Tried again. Still nothing. I checked my phone. No service. Fuck.
One of the French riders walked up and simply asked, “Fix?”
“Oui, je ne français pas,” I stammered. That was all it took. One guy grabbed a tool kit, another a flashlight, and they immediately got to work. We all knew it was the battery. The solution? A push start.
Don’t ask me how the hand signals made sense, but somehow they did.
So there I was, in the middle of the desert, three Frenchmen pushing me down the road while I tried to kick the engine to life. And then, off to the races The bike came alive.
“Si bon,” I yelled back. “Merci beaucoup.”
“Au revoir, mon ami,” one of them called, as I watched their hands wave in my rearview mirror.
Bikers helping bikers. That’s the community. That’s the love.
Note – if you’re one of the french bikers on the harley cruisers that I met deep in red rock, I owe you a drink. hit me up.