Motorcycle Monk

I climbed onto the worn seat of my Harley hog. Wobbly from the last few shots of tequila, I stared at my bike, sweat dripping from my dark beard and down my arms. I had to stop this insanity—running with the Red Diablos motorcycle gang. If they ever found out who I was and what I did, I’d be roadkill in minutes. I was searching—searching for a path to forgiveness.

As I revved up my engine, Big Bob, the gang leader, pulled up beside me. “Hey, ‘Padre,’ ready to go raise some hell?” ‘Padre’ was the nickname the gang had given me because of the cross tattoo on my shoulder, isn’t that ironic?

Our gang of twelve roared out onto the Pacific Coast Highway. We were just leaving a sleazy bar about five miles north of the Pepperdine campus. I had worked at Pepperdine for eight years, constantly covering up my tattoos for fear of the university discovering my foolish addiction to motorcycles and gang life.

We didn’t usually cause serious trouble. Our typical MO was to surround a single car and shoot paintballs at the wheels, making it slow down as we laughed and sped away. We found our first victim—an a-hole driving a black Tesla truck, creeping along at 55 mph.

As we approached the Tesla, Tami, in her tight leathers and bright red lipstick, pulled alongside me, gave me a sexy smile, a wink, and formed a heart sign with her hands. I felt a door of excitement open as the shadow of my soul darkened.

Fueled by tequila and testosterone, I held up my fist, signaling to the gang that I would take the lead. I revved my engine and pulled right in front of the Tesla. I could see outright fear in the driver’s face as he slammed on his brakes to avoid colliding with me. Our gang quickly encircled the truck as it slowed down. We drove like this for a few minutes, revving our engines, raising our fists, and laughing.

As we entered a straightaway, Nasty Gator, he earned the nickname wrestling and killing an alligator, pulled alongside the truck and let loose a salvo of black and red paintballs, our gang colors of course, covering the wheels and rear windshield in seconds.

Now the fun would usually begin with the driver pulling over, where we could fully cover his vehicle with more paint. But instead of stopping, the driver panicked and hit the power, trying to escape. I was still leading the pack in front of the Tesla, and as he sped past me, he clipped my rear tire. I flew off after him in a rage, no one was going to hit my bike, especially with me on it.

I finally caught up on a sharp curve. I could see his face through the windshield—tears of fear and anguish streamed down his cheeks. I pulled alongside him and shook my fists, flipping him the bird. I had lost all self-control; my lizard brain was fully in charge.

Suddenly, he swerved into the oncoming lane. All I could do was juke into the same lane to avoid colliding with him. I was looking at him and yelling, “What do you think you’re doing?” when I heard the thunder of an approaching vehicle. Just as I looked up, a large semi-truck came around the corner, destroying the black Tesla in a flash.

I hit the gas and swerved left to the side of the highway. I caromed off the guardrail, and for a second, I thought I was going to escape serious damage. But I didn’t see the stalled SUV on the shoulder. I laid my bike down as fast as I could, plunging into the undercarriage of the SUV, which pinned me beneath it. The last thing I remember was the smell of gasoline, a bright flash, and then total darkness.

Three weeks later, I sat up in my hospital bed for the first time since the accident—with two broken legs, second-degree burns, and a shattered soul. Sitting up was a challenge, to say the least. I felt a boulder of evil and guilt resting on my chest, crushing my very essence. My foolish actions had killed an innocent man. I was supposed to be saving people, not killing them.

Later that day, a new nurse came into my hospital room. Her name was Rachel. She had dark brown hair pulled back tightly from her forehead and intense brown eyes. She came over to my bed and, in a voice of cold steel, asked, “How are you feeling today, ‘Padre’?” “My body is healing,” I replied, “but my soul is devastated beyond all repair.” Looking down on me, Nurse Rachel seemed to peer through my very being. “You should feel awful. What you did was revolting. I hope your boulder of guilt crushes you into a thousand pieces, and you burn in hell for all eternity.”

My path to forgiveness was more hidden than ever.