On the open road, just my bike and me. -- Image by Pierluigi D'Amelio from Pixabay
A Modern retelling of "The Good Samaritan"
The sun was baking Highway 60 in New Mexico like a skillet. Heat shimmered on the asphalt. Miles of open nothing stretched out in every direction.
Thunder rolled in the distance, the kind of summer monsoon storm that could turn dry ground into a mudslide in ten minutes flat.
That's when the biker rolled in.
Not just any biker — this guy looked like trouble. Six-foot-four, built like a refrigerator with arms, tattoos from knuckles to collarbone, a beard with its own zip code. A leather vest patched with faded rock tour logos. Three days of dry camping through Arizona and New Mexico had left him smelling like a combination of motor oil, campfire, and the inside of a well-traveled boot.
He had just left Pie Town — full of actual pie and questionable coffee — and was cruising toward home in Truth or Consequences. His Harley rumbled like a distant storm; saddlebags stuffed with dusty gear and one still-warm slice of pecan pie wrapped in foil.
That's when he saw it: an old, dented pickup truck in the ditch, nose down like it had tried to tunnel to Texas. The front end was crumpled, steam puffing from the radiator. Inside, a man slumped over the wheel.
The biker slowed, pulled over, and killed the engine.
For a moment, he just sat there. Nobody else was stopping — not the shiny SUV that blew past, not the beat-up sedan with the bumper sticker about "supporting local." Even a lifted pickup with a "God Bless America" decal roared by without so much as tapping the brakes.
The rider swung off his Harley, boots crunching in the gravel. He popped open a saddlebag, pulled out a water bottle, and jogged down into the ditch.
"Hey," he said, voice gravelly but steady. "You breathing?"
The man stirred. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead. A cut above his eyebrow trickled blood.
The biker offered the water, then pulled a small first-aid kit from his vest. Turns out, he knew exactly what he was doing — cleaned the wound, checked for concussion signs, then dialed 911.
When the operator asked for his name, he paused. "Doesn't matter. Just send an ambulance to mile marker 102. Got a guy here who needs help."
The rain came fast. Sheets of water blurred the road. The big man stayed with the driver, keeping him talking, holding a tarp over him to block the downpour until the paramedics arrived.
As the ambulance pulled away and the troopers finished their notes, the tow truck rumbled into gear to haul the wreck. Something about this injured man weighed heavily on the biker's mind, down to his soul. He knew what needed to be done.
He stopped the tow driver. "Bill me. Where's it going?"
"Socorro," the driver said. "Only shop for miles."
"In Socorro, then," the biker replied. "I'll cover the repairs — and tell the hospital I'll handle whatever insurance won't."
He kept his word. In Socorro, he made the arrangements, then rode the last stretch home.
Kindness doesn't always come wrapped in a tidy package. Sometimes it wears a leather vest, smells like it's been camping for three days, and leaves before you can even say thank you.
At home, the kids ran up and hugged him — then stepped back, wrinkling their noses. "You stink!"
His wife, smiling but keeping her distance, listened as he told her the whole story. When he finished, she said, "That is so you — one of the many reasons I married you. Now, your barber is on the way, the maintenance guy is polishing your bike, and you're not just some biker… you're the owner and CEO of Bat Crazy AI. Now get that big backside upstairs and take a shower."
He did. They hugged. And later that year, Bat Crazy AI was rebranded as Mile Marker 102 AI.
Based on Luke 10:25-37 (The Good Samaritan)
Synopsis:
Help doesn't always come from the expected source. True compassion crosses barriers, ignores appearances, and acts at personal cost. Grace often shows up in surprising ways — sometimes wearing a leather vest and leaving before you can even say thank you.
Tap to read the actual bible passage:
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