Introduction
For more than fifteen years now, I have been drawing inspiration from my many journeys on my cherished Harley Davidson. All in all, this ageing bike has taken me more than 160,000 miles. It has carried me across Alps, through snow-covered moors and along the steep incline approaching the summit of an Italian volcano. All of these stories are authentic accounts of some of these journeys, with reflections inspired along the way.
As a member of a Christian motorcycle club and an Anglican vicar, you might imagine that I would make faith connections, and you would be right. So I hope you enjoy reading these accounts as much as I have enjoyed living them.
In taking these journeys, there have also been highly significant sections of the ride, as well as noteworthy breaks and experiences on the way, which have had enormous and lasting impact. The lessons that informed my future journeys were important, drawing on these experiences, both positive and negative. Furthermore, there were aspects of the journeys where God intervened, sometimes in obvious and powerful ways, where if He had not, the journey would have concluded abruptly, and with clear finality. Similarly, my own faith journey has held significant moments along the way, as well as clear forks in the road leading in diametrically opposed directions. Some of these were roads leading to potentially magnificent mountaintop experiences, while the opposite were leading down potentially devastating avenues. Here, I will begin by sharing some of these significant moments on my own journey through faith. Therefore, in order to appreciate the way God has moved in my life, it will be important to first share a little of my own background and story.
Part One
A Journey into Faith
1
Not the Best Way to Enter the World
I actually began life in a hospital in Leigh in Greater Manchester on a cold January morning in 1964, having apparently been conceived as the result of a forced sexual encounter, which my biological mother later related to me when I finally made contact. Although she already had a son slightly older than me, she was prevented from bringing me home by my biological grandmother, whom she was living with, not least owing to the circumstance of my conception. Even then, I believe, God was looking after me, and I realise that if this had not been the case, I would probably never have seen the light of day.
Having been abandoned at the hospital, it wasn’t long before I was collected and taken to another home in Manchester, where I was subsequently adopted by a decent, down-to-earth, working-class couple, whom I always recognised as my actual parents. This has been a helpful analogy for me, when I have grappled with the way we can truly be sons of God.[1] Being adopted by God the Father into sonship is as real a relationship and reality as my own adoption by my own earthly parents. I realise that not all parents, mothers or fathers, have been positive influences, and it can be difficult equating divine Fatherhood in these circumstances.
I finally met my biological father much later in life, several years before he died, and not knowing what to expect. My half-sister had related to me, the first time we met, how she had gone out with a boy her father didn’t like. When he came to pick her up, she told me that her father had gone for him with an axe, which lodged in the roof of the car as he ducked in the driving seat. They then sped off with this axe embedded in the roof. Unsurprisingly, the relationship with the boy didn’t last. This in part explained my own unpredictable nature, which I had obviously inherited, and which accompanied a more placid nature that had developed from my upbringing.
It is important to recognise, though, that God the Father is perfect, lacking the negative traits of our own parents, and He may even be the first real loving Father we experience. This adoption is nonetheless as real as the adoption by the couple who welcomed me into their home and brought me up.
On Sundays in the early 1970s, not dissimilar to many other couples in those days, my parents would take part in two central activities. My father would spend hours washing and polishing our Ford Cortina on the driveway, while my mother would drag me to a local Church of England service. The church was located in the middle of a rough, deprived council estate, which one of my then closest friends also lived on. I could share some interesting stories of what we got up to there, and most of which I sometimes criticise in others, until my wife annoyingly points out, ‘Didn’t you do that when you were younger?’
The church was very traditional, and while I went through the motions, I had no real understanding of who God was. It is possible to do this all our lives, following what are in essence empty rituals and practices, until we come into a real relationship with Jesus.[2]
2
Early Days
In the 1970s, besides attending church, it was certainly colourful growing up, living in a cul-de-sac which had both a piggery and an orchard at the end of the road. Having no adopted siblings, I would spend a great deal of time with my friends, who also lived in this cul-de-sac. We used to climb over the wall of the orchard and sit chatting, catching the grasshoppers which covered the wooden, creosoted fence surrounding the outer edges of the orchard, or scrumping a few apples, before often being chased and shot at with pellets by the owner. We were of course banned from trespassing in the orchard, and would come home to big trouble if our parents found out about it. Those times were special, though; we often don’t appreciate those simple pleasures until they are gone. While the orchard held special memories, the piggery became legendary.
It was a day just like any other, with the sun blazing down on a peaceful midsummer Sunday afternoon. Suddenly, this peace was exploded with the sound of the patter of tiny feet. As I peered through the multicoloured venetian blinds which hung from my parents’ lounge window, a sea of small pink noses was gathering at the end of the road. From an initial patter of tiny feet, a whole herd of pigs stampeded past our lounge window. There was a deafening sound of high-pitched squeals like the sound of screeching tyres spinning out of control, with tiny legs motoring down the avenue, and their small curly tails following. I have never seen a more amusing sight since, with the owner and his two sons giving chase with little chance of stopping them. The whole herd disappeared around the corner, onto the estate. One of my friends had been the culprit – he had talked about how amusing it would be to let the pigs out, but I didn’t think he would actually go through with it. It wasn’t long after this that he predictably ended up in the local Borstal, or Youth Detention Centre.
Looking back at this episode, I can’t help thinking about the story of Jesus in Luke 8:26-39, driving out a legion of demons from a man who lived, tormented and afflicted among the graves. Here, Jesus set the man free, and after the demons pleaded with Jesus not to destroy them, they were sent into a herd of pigs. The demon-infested pigs then careered down towards some water, before drowning, and leaving the man in his right mind. Those looking after the herd appeared to care little for the healed man, and seemed more concerned about the pigs, as the people, now full of fear then turned on Jesus, pleading with Him to leave. I can imagine those responsible for the herd running after these pigs as they headed off towards the water, just like the ones that filled my road on their own bid for freedom.
These early days were carefree, without the distraction of mobile phones, computer screens or video games. This was a time when the black-and-white television consisted of two channels. What this meant was that we had to invent our own amusement. We would meet in the middle of the street and organise simple games of British Bulldog or Red Rover, or even talk about the recent moon landing. The summers seemed to go on forever in those early days, and much of my time was spent with friends, either exploring the nearby woods or searching for newts in the local brooks and ponds around the local golf links.
Throughout the 1970s, we spent a great deal of time at the local swimming pool, which also still contained a series of public baths. Although this sounds implausible in modern times, this was common during my childhood, particularly in my area, where many homes were without bathrooms; this was where families would come to take their weekly baths together. The swimming pool was also basic, cold and in need of refurbishment, and when the lights were first turned on, the floor would come alive as its mosaic-like tiles began to move, and teams of cockroaches scurried to find cover from the light. Yet we didn’t seem to mind sharing this antiquated pool with this local wildlife.
After the summer of 1975, I attended a local comprehensive school in Eccles. For me, school was just as carefree, mainly because I often refused to do the work, preferring to mess around or just daydream during lessons. Religion was interwoven into the fabric of the school day, which always began with an assembly, consisting of several hymns and prayers. I did enjoy my schooldays, though, spending untroubled hours with friends – with low expectations from teachers who had given up on me and held little hope that I would take anything seriously.
I also found myself in a tiny bit of trouble with the police while at school and, predictably, I eventually left with appalling grades, in addition to an inability to understand or use basic punctuation. The teachers advised that I had gone as far as I could academically, which was nowhere! However, it gave me great pleasure in later life to complete two theological degrees and write a PhD thesis, before ironically becoming a teacher.
The truth was that the trajectory of my life was heading for disaster during these early days, and it was purely down to a life-changing encounter with Jesus that I was turned around. This gives me great encouragement, having experienced being written off myself, that God can change any situation or any life. One of my school reports said, ‘Nigel has the capacity to ask the most ridiculous questions in class.’ I take that as a compliment, because what others perceive as ridiculous might just be the question that needs asking. God doesn’t write any of us off, and I know if He could help me, He can certainly help anyone.
On leaving school in 1980, I had the compulsory meeting with the careers officer. He asked me, ‘What do you want to do next?’ I told him I had not got a clue. He said, ‘Name some jobs.’
I really hadn’t given my future any thought, let alone what job I wanted to do. All I could think of was a half-remembered nursery rhyme, so I replied, ‘Butcher, baker, candlestick maker,’ and just before I had chance to repeat ‘beggar man, thief’, he stopped me.
‘What made you say baker?’
I couldn’t say it was part of the rhyme that had popped into my head, and before I had a chance to come up with a rationale, he told me there was a bakery course at Salford Technical College, now Salford University, which he enrolled me on to. This led to a job at a bakery, which lasted six months.
I was responsible for making the bread at night, which would be shipped out to the numerous bakeries around Salford. One particular night I forgot the salt. The salt does two things – it stops the yeast from excessively rising and it gives the bread taste. So the bread started to rise very successfully, but it didn’t stop rising, until it was the tallest bread you have ever seen. I had to make a decision then either to tell someone or to risk sending the bread out. I sent it out.
Not only was the bread very tall, it was also very tasteless. So all the bread was sent back from around Salford, and I was in the office with my short-lived bakery career in tatters. It was, however, a few weeks before I let my parents know, and I continued to get up and ride into town, making out that I was going to work.
Ironically, losing this job was the best thing that could have happened to me, as it led to me escaping in the summer of 1984 to work at a holiday camp in Morecambe, where I was to meet my wife a year later.
I actually arrived at the holiday camp in my run-down Ford Capri, which expired not long after arriving. It was early in the evening when I drove, with three friends, a little too fast around a particularly tight, unfamiliar bend. The narrow lane curved to the right, but we continued straight on. The car left the ground like a scene from a movie and landed in a field. My three friends left their seats and hit their heads sharply on the roof. The engine was now full of turf from the field and was smoking badly, as the turf had destroyed the radiator.
We removed the remainder of the grass from the engine and managed to drive the car back to the holiday camp, smoking and overheating, where it remained until the end of the season.
Having killed the car, I eventually decided to buy a motorcycle from a local bike shop in Morecambe. This was when my passion for riding really took off. I bought a relatively fast two-stroke Japanese bike. I loved the freedom of riding around the local villages, weaving through the tight narrow bends or riding along the coastal roads. I would ride in all weathers, often travelling between Morecambe and Manchester at weekends as I visited my home, with only a T-shirt and leather jacket to protect me from the elements. It was also useful, after eventually meeting Alison, to be able to take her out to the local pubs in Morecambe and Lancaster, and to be able to escape the confines of the holiday camp.
[1] Romans 8:14-15.
[2] The Pharisees of Jesus’ time, who were the religious leaders, were a little like this, focusing on the ritual at the expense of the relationship – see Matthew 23:23.
