There’s something about getting out into the bush that has a way of settling things.
Over two weekends in a row, I had the chance to head away on the adventure bikes with some great fellas. It wasn’t a Trail Chapel trip, but it carried a familiar thread: creation, conversation, and a bit of space to breathe.
The second weekend took us down into the Victorian High Country. Just me and a mate. Three days. A few hours riding each day through steep climbs, loose rock, river crossings – the kind of terrain that keeps you honest. The rest of the time was slower. Sitting still. Reading Scripture. Talking about faith in a way that’s a bit more real than polished.
Somewhere along the way we started calling it Moto Monks. Not because it was anything profound, but because it held a similar rhythm—stepping away, simplifying things, making space to seek God. Less noise. Less hurry. Just being present. But it wasn’t all smooth (for me any way as my mate is a much better rider than me and he breezed through it all).
The weather shifted constantly – wind, rain, sunshine, even snow. There were dropped bikes, a fall that’s left my shoulder still a bit tender even though it has been a few weeks, and more than a few moments of feeling out of my depth on the tracks. But that’s often where things start to surface. When you’re pushed a bit, when things don’t go to plan, when you realise you’re not as in control as you’d like to be – it has a way of bringing things into the light. Attitudes, reactions, areas where trust is still a work in progress. And in the middle of that, God meets you there. Not always in big, obvious ways. More often in the quiet realisation of what needs to be handed over. What needs to change. What needs to be trusted.
Coming back from it, I’ve been thinking about how easily life fills up. Noise. Schedules. Responsibilities. Good things, but constant. And without intention, there’s not much room left to actually abide. To sit with God. To listen. To wrestle with what faith looks like in the everyday. Spaces like that don’t tend to just appear—they have to be made.
For us, this time it looked like motorbikes and mountains. Next time, it might look different. There’s a good chance Moto Monks becomes a bit of a rhythm moving forward. Not because it’s adventurous or different—but because it creates space for what matters.
What does that look like for you?
Where do you step away from the noise?
Who do you walk with as you figure that out?
