On a chilly Sunday morning in mid-May, packs of leather-clad bikers descend on a field at the outskirts of the municipal airport in Baldwin, Michigan. From the hum of distant engines becoming a thunderous roar to the skull-print face masks and black balaclavas the motorcyclists wear to block the unseasonable cold—all of it evokes some portentous scene from Mad Max: Fury Road. But instead of a future desert wasteland, the setting is a drab midwestern winterscape. What at first look like flower petals falling from trees are actually snowflakes slowly drifting through the air.
It’s a different story out at the airport, where the average number of yearly attendees is closer to 2,500. Today, organizers speculate it’s something more like 1,500, which nonetheless is an impressive congregation of chrome and cowhide and riders from all manner of clubs, including the Christian Motorcyclists Association. “This year’s turnout isn’t great,” says Carl Huey, a man standing at the entrance dressed in head-to-toe leather, including a vest covered in patches (pretty much the event’s standard uniform). He’s the sergeant at arms of Para-Dice, the motorcycle club from Grand Rapids that has organized the Blessing since its inception. “There were years where we’d have 5,000 bikes—a line of ’em stretching down the road for miles, waiting to come in,” Huey says. “But I think the weather is keeping people away.”
“You can’t choose your family,” Moose says. “But in our club, we get to choose our family. If someone’s struggling with bills, we all pitch in.”
Laughter erupts. Later I catch up with Pastor Ron and ask him if the bikers believe that his blessing assures their safety. “I hope they think that’s not all there is to it,” he says with a grin. “They can’t just leave here and be reckless.” He concludes the prayer “in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” then adds, “God, are you listening? They’re gonna make a noise for you! Ladies and gentleman, start your engines!”
