A few weeks ago, I took a four-hour round trip on my own. There was no destination worth bragging about, no group, and no plan beyond riding until it felt like time to head back. Near the end, I pulled into a gas station, shut the bike off, and went inside for a Gatorade. Then I sat for about twenty minutes, listening to music and watching traffic roll by. I was a little tired, the good kind of tired, and nobody needed anything from me.
That’s my church. It doesn’t have a choir or a sermon. It has a fuel pump, a cold drink, and a congregation of exactly one. It took me a while to realize that counts.
What I Expected the Parking Lot to Be
You’ve probably heard riders talk about the parking lot at the end of a long ride like it’s sacred. Bikes lined up, engines ticking as they cool, and everybody swapping stories about the curve that almost got them. I’ve seen that picture so many times that I figured it was the real version and mine was the lonely copy. When I sat down to write this, I expected to write about that crowd. Then I looked at my own riding and realized I couldn’t, at least not truthfully. Most of my end-of-ride stops look nothing like that.
The One Time I Rode With a Group
About three years ago, I did ride with a group. There were eight of us, riders I’d met through a mechanic friend, and we rode from Conyers to a motorcycle club event in Carrollton. After the event, we stopped to gas up together. If you’re picturing the parking lot church right now, I hate to disappoint you. There wasn’t any real conversation. We fueled up, got back on the road, and split up on the highway as everyone peeled off toward home.
Even without the talk, that stop felt different from my solo ones. In a group, you’re a team. You’re responsible for the next guy, watching his spacing and making sure nobody gets left behind. My attention pointed outward the whole time, even standing at the pump. It wasn’t worse, just a different job. When I ride alone, the only person I’m checking on is me.
Why I Ride Alone
I don’t mind group rides, and I’d do one again. But solo trips are the bread and butter of my riding, and the reason is simple. I’m not tied to any group of riders, and I like being able to pick up and ride on a whim. I don’t have to text anybody, wait on anybody, or check whether the time works for everyone. When the itch hits, I go. That freedom is a big part of why I ride in the first place.
Riding solo also changes what the stop means. Nobody’s counting heads, and there’s no plan to talk through. So the gas station becomes something else: a wind-down session. Those twenty minutes are how I shift out of riding mode before I finish the trip. I didn’t plan it that way. It just turned into a habit I look forward to.
What I Actually Do for Twenty Minutes
Honestly, not much, and that’s the point. I drink the Gatorade, because four hours on a bike will dry you out faster than you notice. I listen to a mix of music, whatever fits the mood that day. My body finally gets to tell me how tired it is now that it’s still. And I watch traffic.
Watching traffic after a ride hits different. When you’ve just spent hours out there on two wheels, you notice how drivers treat each other, and how they treat riders. What I see a lot is a lack of respect between people in cars and people on bikes. Some drivers act like a motorcycle is part of the scenery instead of a person. Sitting on the curb and watching it makes it clearer than it ever is when I’m in the middle of it. It’s not a fun thing to notice, but it’s an honest one.
Then there’s the free feeling. I don’t have a better word for it. It doesn’t come from talking to anybody or figuring anything out. It’s just there, sitting next to me while the drink gets warm. It’s always welcome, and it’s the closest I can get to describing why this stop feels like church.
The Ride Home
Here’s the part that surprised me when I thought it through. The ride home after that stop is usually quicker, and I’m more attentive, not less. You’d think being tired would make me sloppy. Instead, knowing I’m tired keeps me sharp. Maybe the twenty minutes has something to do with that, or maybe it’s just knowing I’m close to home. I’m not sure yet. Either way, I love pushing on to the next stop, even when the next stop is my own garage.
What I’m Still Figuring Out
So is the parking lot a church? For me, yes, but not the kind people usually describe. Mine is quiet and solo, and the one group stop I remember was more about responsibility than fellowship. I don’t know if I’ve just never landed in the right parking lot, or if the version people talk about is more story than reality. What I do know is that the stop matters, crowd or no crowd. It’s where the ride settles before I carry it home.
My next trip is to the Georgia mountains. This time I’m going to pay attention to the stops: where I pull over, how long I sit, and whether I end up talking to anyone. If it turns into the crowded parking lot I keep hearing about, I’ll tell you. If it’s me and a Gatorade again, I’ll tell you that too.
Where do you stop at the end of a long ride, and does anybody else ever show up?
R.L. Canty | The Squirrelly Biker
