Little Jesus’ ears are roaring.

700 bikers are snoring their motorcycles at his feet.

St-Joseph Oratory.

Overlooking the city of Montreal.

What are bikers doing on the steps of a church?

What are Freemasons doing in the parking lot of Jesus?

What are strong men doing with tattooed arms full of toys?

They are here to help hospitalized children of Montreal.

An exotic fruit salad for one goal: raise funds.

Motorcycles growl. The music resonates. House of a rising sun.

At the microphone:

Shaggy roars.

“We are doing this for bikers, but mostly for children! Because they’ll be the ones who will be changing our diapers when we’ll get old. We invest in the future. So we take care of children, now.”

“So let’s get spoiled by Mr. Sun,

that is sent to us by Jesus Lord,

who’s keeping us alive,

for a while!”

“Take care of you. We’ll see each other later,

with the priests who will bless our bikes.”

Before they ride all summer long.

Bikers seek divine protection.

Holy water to quench their thirst for driving.

Crests in their back.

Associations are showing themselves.

The Survivors Bikers – The AMAQ…

American Motorcycle Association of Quebec.

And the most active… The most visible… The Freemasons.

Among them the Widows Sons, affiliated with the Shriners.

“Those who want a coffee, a muffin,

all funds go to the Shriners Hospital for Children.”

The cuddly plushies rain down on the Windows Sons’ truck.

Elizabeth II headed bills are traded for lotto tickets.

“The little man who is in the wheelchair with Shriners,

he comes from Ghana.

Michael was born with rigid joints.

No movement in the elbows.

Knees. The wrists. Hips.

No movements.

The Shriners took them under their wings,

he and his mother.

They live in Quebec now. At the Shriners expense. In a month, they will repair one of his wrists. They fixed both his knees. Now he has a bolted knee.”

A smile attached to his face,

the little Michael strolls, pushed by Bikers.

“What you are doing today, is to help children believe in life!”

The horde of hogs is continuously getting bigger.

Waiting for the priests.

“We are taking care of sick children and their mothers. They get free treatments from the Shriners Hospital in Montreal,” said Bertrand, proud of his community.“And we are also taking care of other things on the side. We pay their rent and the expenses of the mothers, whenever possible. Every Shriners temple around the world have given money to the Montreal Shriners Hospital for Children: 165 million cash. No taxpayer has put a penny in there. Now, we need money for equipment and some other things.”

In the lines, bikers are talking about their next rides.

In the lines, bikers are taking pictures,

with cuddly plushies under their arms.

In the lines, bikers are proud of their motorbikes.

“You have to know that taking care of a child, it enhances your life. For 22 years now, I’ve been taking care of little Pierre-Paul,” tells the MC Shaggy, tears in his voice.“Today, he’s thanking me for helping out. He’s not related to me. But what I received from this child is worth more than everything that I gave him all these years.”

In the land of leather jackets.

Of tough guys. Of flames and gasoline.

Tears make their way to their eyes.

Small lucky charms are waiting for the priests,

to be blessed, too.

“Don’t swear in these holy grounds!” repeats Shaggy.

“The only time you can swear,

is when you’re leading a riding gang on the road.”

The sun is at its highest.

The priest finally arrives.

With a crew of assistants.

Arms full of holy water.

“We are going to ask our Lord to keep us safe on the road,”calls out the man in white.“We are going to make an act of faith to ask him to protect the riders of these bikes. Nice bikes by the way.”

Bikers look like children.

The crowd agrees, in front of their father.

Hands over their hearts. Little crosses in hands.

They repeat the Biker’s Prayer in French after the priest.

« Seigneur tu es le chemin, protège nous sur la route.

Seigneur tu es la vérité, donne nous de bons réflexes.

Seigneur tu es la vie, ramène nous ici devant toi l’an prochain.

Seigneur, Jésus, toi le grand voyageur.

Soit avec nous aujourd’hui et sur les routes.

Amen. »

A biker priest, dressed in black, steps forward.

“O Lord you are the way, Make our trips safe and joyful.

O Lord you are the truth, give us good reflexes.

O Lord you are the life, bring us back home safe and sound.

Father Lord Jesus and the Holy Spirit bless our motorbikes.

Amen.”

The mass has been said.

The assembly gathers towards their steel mounts.

The priests sprinkle them.

Some bikers close their eyes.

To pray.

To avoid the holy droplets.

The ritual ends with a secret handshake.

Given to accustomed priests.

The time of financial reckoning is nigh.

Lil’ Michael dives his crooked hand,

in a big bag full of lottery tickets.

Winners are announced.

Waiting for next year.

Lil’ Jesus’ ears are roaring.

700 bikers are snoring their motorcycles at his feet.







