Several years ago, my wife, Denise, and I were traveling out west. We had driven through miles of beautiful country as we approached a long desolate stretch of two-lane curves. Signs warned us that there was no service for over 100 miles.

We stopped and topped off the tank and stocked up on necessities like Coke and Snickers. I felt like my ancestors who did the same before they undertook such a trek. Except, of course, the Coke, Snickers, leather seats, and air conditioning.

We left the trading post and headed off into the vast desolation that has made this part of the American West so popular. We were no more than half a mile from the trading post when we came upon two cars parked on the roadside. Between the two cars four senior adults were holding corners of a blanket about waist high. This looked so completely odd that even I had to slow down to look.

There, on the asphalt, between the four adults and under the shade of the outstretched blanket, lay a person. In my former life I was a respiratory therapist. In addition, I have been trained in emergency medical treatment by the Army as well as in college. We pulled over to see if we could offer any assistance.

In the middle of the lane was a would-be Hell’s Angel who had taken a bit of a spill. He was scratched from head to boot.

He said, “My bike got away from me.” Looking around I saw no sign of a bike at all.

I replied, “It did a good job of it too. I don’t see a bike anywhere.”

Scrapped, bruised, and broken, he said, “My friends took my bike back to the trading post.”

Here we stand, six rank strangers, offering aid as best as possible, and his “friends” took his bike back to the trading post and left him at the edge of Death Valley. With complete honesty I can say that I have no friends like that. Would a friend actually leave you on the roadside after an accident? Not mine.

Pity filled my heart as I looked at a middle aged wanna be renegade lying on hot pavement abandoned by his so-called friends.

“Sounds like you need to upgrade your circle of friends,” I replied.

Then he said, “Oh, they called 911.”

Small comfort.

I ride a Harley and have for decades. It could have been me. But I almost always ride alone. I ride for therapy. It is cheaper than a counselor and really, when was the last time you saw a Harley parked in front of a psychiatrist’s office?

Army Rangers and Marines make a vow to never leave a fallen comrade behind. There is comfort in knowing that among a band of true brothers someone will drag you out. Having been in some pretty deep ditches, I could always look to my side and see my friends. When they have been in the ditches ofl ife, they looked over and saw me. That is what friends do.

After doing what we could, we left Evel under the watchful care of four kind Samaritans and made our way west. As we drove deeper into the barren wilderness, and further from civilization, I prayed for him.

After driving about 45 minutes, and meeting not a single vehicle, we met an ambulance with lights and siren wide open. That meant that he lay there at least an hour and a half before professional aid arrived.

I have often wondered about that man. Did he upgrade his circle of friends? What was his reunion like when they met again? Did he later get on his bike and ride solo back home?

I want to be the kind of friend who you can find in the ditch beside you. And when I am that kind of friend, I find myself surrounded by the same.

Who can count on you when they are in the ditch?

Aaron Johnson is a contributing writer for Yellowhammer News. He is pastor of Christ Redeemer Church in Guntersville.