Bikers bestow grace on me and my boy

With my car disabled on a lonely highway, they got us on the road again

This column originally appeared in the March issue of The Columbia River Reader.

An hour’s drive along a lonely Central Washington highway restored some of my faith in humanity.

About a month ago, my son Nicky and I were headed to Chelan from Wenatchee, where we had just competed in the state Special Olympics basketball tournament, he as a player, I as a coach.

It had been a long three days, and as I drove northward on U.S. 97 I became sleepy. So I pulled into the driveway of an abandoned zip line business to take a brief nap, letting Nicky do an electronic puzzle on his iPad.

I awoke 15 minutes later and turned the key of my Subaru Imprezza to continue our journey to visit old friends in Chelan. All I got was a rapid click-click-click, a sure sign of a dead battery. I had somehow left the key in the ignition in the “on” position. My snooze had drained the battery.

There was no cell phone service. Nothing but rolling scrubland surrounded us. I couldn’t reach 911. I knew, from previous visits, that I was miles from a home, a business or cell phone service.

I’m usually manically self-reliant, but I was stumped.

As I pondered my predicament, I heard some southbound motorcycles approach from beyond a slight rise. Sure enough, three riders on Harleys, one an older guy and a middle-aged couple, came riding toward me.

They wore biker garb, but these were not Hells Angels people. They became my guardian angels that late Sunday afternoon.

I waved. They stopped and asked what was wrong. They checked the battery connections. Then they dug into one of their saddle bags to grab a portable power booster. It started the Subbie right up.

I’ll never leave home again without one of those power packs, but the experience also energized my sagging view of humanity. These people were the first to come upon me and the first to stop. They didn’t need to interrupt their leisurely cruise to help, but they did.

I have no idea what their politics were, but their civility and compassion touched me. They were simply people being nice to people. As long as we as a people treat one another like that, not as labels, our culture and nation will endure.

After thanking them profusely (and neglecting to get their names, duh), I drove off feeling I had gotten plain lucky. What I’d really bestowed on me , though, was a dollop of grace.