Part One: The Turn

The road peels away beneath my tires. Ahead, an 18-wheeler throws up a shower of dirt and water, warning me of the blindness about to come. The engine hums its familiar song beneath me; a reassuring vibration of partnership, man and machine working together. A glance in the mirror confirms a blur of traffic all around, moving in what seems like slow motion.

And then comes the last move before I change lanes: the head check.

Every motorcyclist learns this ritual. It’s not optional—it’s survival. You check your mirrors, yes, but mirrors aren’t enough. There’s always a blind spot, that space just over your shoulder where someone could be driving. The head check requires you to take your eyes off the road ahead. For just a second, you have to stop looking at where you’re going and turn to see what you might have missed.

The poet writes: “The last move is the ‘head check,’ ensuring no-one is in my blind spot, that person who is in my life unnoticed, with whom I might collide, or I nearly did, but didn’t notice at the time.”

I’ve been thinking about this lately—not just on the motorcycle, but in life. Who are the people in my blind spots?

Last Tuesday, I rushed through the kitchen on my way to an important meeting. My wife was at the counter. I called out a quick “See you later” without breaking stride. Hand on the doorknob, keys jangling, mind already three steps ahead.

“Hey,” she said softly.

Something in her voice made me stop. Made me turn around. Made me really look at her for the first time that morning.

Her eyes were moist.

“I’m here, you know,” she said. “Thank you for the coffee” … with some understatement in her voice.

I put down my backpack. The meeting suddenly seemed very far away.

I almost missed it. I almost walked right past this moment, past her pain, past the opportunity to be present to someone I love. She was right there—not ahead of me, not behind me, but beside me. In my blind spot.

The head check requires three things that don’t come naturally.

First, it requires slowing down. You cannot do a proper head check at full speed. You have to create a little space between your momentum and your next move. As the Psalmist writes, “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). Stillness isn’t passivity—it’s the pause that allows us to see.

Second, it requires turning. Physically reorienting yourself to see what’s hidden from your forward view. This means taking your eyes off your own path, your own plans. It means admitting that someone beside you might be more important than where you’re headed.

Third, it requires vulnerability. When you turn your head on a motorcycle, you’re briefly not watching the road ahead. When you turn your attention to someone in life, you’re risking your schedule, your agenda, your carefully constructed day.

But isn’t this exactly what love does?

When we don’t do the head check, we leave a particular kind of spiritual footprint. It’s the footprint of absence. People feel unseen, unnoticed, as if they don’t quite exist in our presence.

This week, I’m trying something. Before I enter a room—my home, my office, a meeting—I pause at the threshold. Just for three seconds. I take a breath. I look around. Who’s here? Who am I in danger of missing?

Yesterday, I did a head check in the grocery store line. The young man at the register had a name tag that read “Daniel.” I actually read it this time.

“How’s your day going?”

He looked startled. Then he smiled—really smiled. “He picked up on my strange Anglofile/American accent.”

“What do they call cookies in England!”

A discussion ensued on the merits of when to call cookies cookies, and not biscuits while in England. It took longer than I had planned but we both added something to our day by the exchange.

Five seconds. That’s all it took. Five seconds to turn my head, to see someone I almost missed, to leave a footprint of presence instead of absence. The road will still be there when we look back. But the person beside us might not be.

So turn your head. Just for a moment. Look. Notice. See.

For it is often in these moments that God is moving inside us, teaching us that the most important journey isn’t always the one ahead, but the one that begins when we turn aside to see who’s traveling beside us.

“Head check”

As the road peels itself off my tires,

The 18 wheeler looms ahead,

spraying a shower of dirt and water,

Warning me of oncoming blindness,

And a cloud of indecision.

The hum of the motorcycle engine below sings its favorite tune

 … reassuring;

Providing me with the wonderful vibration of our partnership,

Man-made machine in harmony together.

She is ready to do my will.

A glance in the mirror confirms the blur of traffic all around, slow-mo it seems.

The last move is the “head check”

Ensuring no-one is in my blind spot,

That person who is in my life unnoticed,

with whom I might collide,

Or I nearly did, but didn’t notice at the time.

A reflection in the spirit of awakening to the spiritual path around us
Copyright © 2025 Michael J. Cunningham