THE SIGN ON THE NOTICEBOARD outside the little rural church in Waikari, Canterbury, was confronting: “Warning, Warning – Redeemed – Gang Members, Criminals and Drug Addicts, visiting your town soon!” The sign was advertising an event to be held in the suburb of Aranui, Christchurch, on Waitangi Day. “Come and hear life-changing stories,” it said.
I turned around nervously, wondering if there would be a cop looking over my shoulder, taking notes. Because I was due to speak at the event. Me – an ageing bro among big, hefty bikers who had come to the South on a mission.
My adventure with redeemed, reborn men and women was about to begin …
The invitation had come from an old mate called Daz. Turns out Daz remembered me from about 40 years ago, when he used to sit with his mum in a church I was working for. Something I said to Daz when he was about eight years old had stuck and helped him on his life journey, including several spells behind bars. Now, he wanted to say thanks.
Humbling! And carrying the prospect of a chance to recapture my youth!
It was an alluring idea. Me, an old biker about to turn 70, being asked to be an ‘honorary rider’ on a 13-day odyssey through the South Island to raise funds and awareness for a youth mentoring trust called Heart for Youth.
It’s fair to say I felt a stirring in my loins – loins that had not sat on a snarling Harley-Davidson (what other brand could it possibly be!) in eight years.
I got very misty-eyed as the ghosts of hogs past ran through my mind – my four Heritage Softail classics; my Street Bob with the skull derby cover and mirrors; and my blue darling, the awesome Rocker C. (Not forgetting a brief flirtation with a titanic Triumph Rocket – 2300cc of sheer adrenaline!)
The challenge would be getting this new venture past my darling wife, who kept muttering about the fatality rate of old wobbly buggers – reviving their biker dreams and ending up in a ditch.
Undeterred, I set out to investigate The Redeemed, and the other motorcycle ministries that have proliferated in Aotearoa over the last 25 years.
These groups – not just The Redeemed, but others like Sons of Thunder, Seed of Abraham, and Least of Saints – are the home of men and women who look from a distance like the bikers we observe with a mixture of fear and awe. But I soon found out, close up, we need have no fear. They are – purely and simply – guys on a mission of aroha and healing.
So, on February 3rd – the day after I entered my eighth decade – we roared down the expressway from our overnight stay with a friendly biker/farmer in Upper Hutt.
A convoy of hope was about to start. Harleys, Indians, even a lovely yellow Suzuki Boulevard – plus support vehicles, boxes of promo material for Heart for Youth and a carton of Bibles.
I trained my camera on the bikers as they lashed their steeds for the ride across Cook Strait. The sense of anticipation was palpable.
On the ferry ride, I connected with Tony. He and I were the white men on this trip.
“I’ve been riding with the Redeemed for about 14 years,” he told me. “It’s quite a brotherhood – you just don’t get this on the outside. Looking forward to burning up some rubber and getting to the Burt Munro Classic in Invercargill!”
Watching Tony and his brothers exit the ferry in tight formation was spine-tingling. There was a presence – a disciplined group of riders who follow some rules. There was a road captain, a tail-end Charlie (usually me, Captain Slow), and a code: Leave no man behind.
Patrice Ratahi, perched on the back of husband Steve’s envy-making Harley, snapped away with her camera, determined to create some memories.
Our first gig was in Richmond, Nelson, at a packed church. The invitation was clear: Bring some of those beautiful machines into church and park them centre-stage. So we did!
Then, a captivating scene: Row upon row of swaying, praying, kneeling, hands-uplifted bikers – including some locals. The faces told the story – they were being transported to their divine happy-place.
I imagined the years of drama some of these men and women had been through to get to this point.
Harataki Kahungunu Manihera – a beautiful, humble soul from the Bay of Plenty, who’s come to honour me with the title Rangatira – owned the stage when it was his turn. He had fire in his belly – and he seamlessly wove Te Reo into his mini-sermon, preaching better than any slick evangelist.
After a couple of days on the road, I dug my Apple Macbook out of the pouch and started to write … I observed that the behaviour of these guys was a fascinating counterpoint to the prevailing climate of fear about bikers in this country.
We’ve all heard the warnings: there’s a gang problem in Aotearoa. More gang members than cops, says one report. There’s nothing like the sight and sound of 500 bikers, patched up and looking menacing, heading for a gang president’s funeral. And there are lots of such events. Gang Prezes tend to die young.
As we travelled, I was often taken by the contrast between the imagery on the backs of these men and women – usually something like a Cross and a verse of scripture – and the iconography of snarling dogs on the backs of others.
They don’t call the emblem on their backs a ‘patch’ … they call it a ‘banner’.
Most of these people have a past. One speaks of 15 jail-terms. Some relate stories of dreadful childhood abuse, gang-life, meth-addiction.
Ana Pani – a Maori/Nuiean Redeemed member from Pukekohe – is a firecracker. I got the chance to be the warm-up act at most of the venues, and I came to introduce Ana as the South Auckland Tsunami.
She stunned every crowd she addressed into silence. Multiple heart surgeries in her 30s; massive journeys of pain. She spoke of cutting her 17-year-old son down from a tree where he was hanging and “praying him back to life.”
“He’s 34 now,” she added, beaming, “about to give me my 17th mokopuna!” Redeemed, without a doubt …
Around the middle section of the mission – mixing it up with probably 8000 other bikers at the Burt Munro Classic – I got to hang out with The Redeemed kaumatua for the trip: Willie Rudolph. He was a little guy compared with the bigger bros, but he’s a pocket-rocket! We enjoyed a coffee outside the Burt Munro Museum. The sign in the window said it all:
“You live more in five minutes on a bike going flat out than some people live in a lifetime.”
Willie – 66 – talked candidly about spells in jail, planning his suicide, a turning point, discovering a book of Bible Psalms on a prison bookshelf, bawling his eyes out, and turning his life around.
“The blackness, ugliness and darkness just disappeared …”
It was pretty humbling. They rode sometimes nine hours a day to their next speaking gig. They related their journeys to the crowds and invited support for their chosen charity. They made a Pākehā fellow rider feel welcome – part of the cause. Hugs, a hongi, and a kiss every day.
It refreshed one’s soul in a world of pain. Tattooed, black-clad, gentle giants … moving seamlessly, unthreatening, among wondering observers … crediting their Creator for a shot at redemption.
I felt right at home. I think I’ll be back with the Redeemed again.
ROB HARLEY IS AN AUTHOR, INSPIRATIONAL SPEAKER, AND STORYTELLER. BUT MOST IMPORTANTLY, HE’S A GREAT KIWI BLOKE.
