**No, that is not my sentiment, but one I hear a lot. Here is a little biker story for you. Hope you like it.
A biker out on the road is pushing his limits, trying to ride long and hard to his destination. His body jittery from too much coffee, cold and wet from a light evening thunderstorm, continues into unknown darkness. Engine sputtering, he switches to reserve, thinking, 'Damn, there should have been a town out here by now! God must hate me.'
Ten minutes later, he sees a camp fire, tents and a few bikes along the side of the road. He pulls over to ask directions. They are all warm and dry and laughing and drinking and generally having a great time. The guy manning the fire introduces himself.
"Hi buddy! I'm Mike. The woman over there in the red hat is Sharon, my wife. She rides the old CBR440. Kim and Nikki are her sisters, riding those matching DR-Z 400's and mine is the old BMW. Damn you look cold and wet! Why don't you stay for the night, have a drink and some burgers. I've got plenty. Oh," he winks, "Kim just got back from four years in the arctic and Nikki was divorced a few months a months ago," he laughs. "This might be an enjoyable rest stop for you."
"Oh no. I have a few hundred more miles to go. Thanks anyway. But, do you happen to have some spare gas? And, where the hell is Interstate 213?"
"There's some spare gas in my Jerry Can, but I213? No idea. I'm not from here. When we ride, we just ride. Only ask for directions to get back home when we are ready."
The biker gets the Jerry Can and empties it into his tank.
"Thanks a lot for the gas, Mike. Here's ten bucks, I really should be going."
"Keep your money, " Mike laughs. "You just be careful out there, OK. And check into a hotel or something. There's another storm coming, I think. Sure you don't want to ride it out here? Plenty of beer and burgers!"
"Nah, I need to go. Thanks a ton!" And the biker mounts his ride and sets off down the asphalt into the pitch black.
Five miles down the road, without warning, the asphalt becomes graded gravel. Lightning in the distance illuminates the large warning signs. "Caution! Road Construction Ahead!"
'God must hate me...'
Ten more miles down the road and it becomes little more than a pot-hole filled rough single lane gravel road. Lightning is flashing all around as the storm gust blows him from one side of the road to the other.
He passes over several old bridges, as the wind picks up. He comes around a sharp corner to see a large lighted sign, 'Local traffic ONLY!' but he goes on. 'God must hate me...'
Not five miles down the road and it becomes a mixture of mud and gravel. The road construction equipment safely tucked in a large machine shed not fifty yards away. He continues on. 'God must hate me...'
It starts hailing. He takes the next blind curve too fast, bike looses traction, slams against the guard rail and launches him to his death, down a two hundred foot chasm.
He awakes in a blinding light. Surrounded by beautiful green pasture and trails, he is sitting on a fully dressed, immaculate Triumph. He rubs his eyes. 'What in the hell is this place?' he wonders.
At that moment, a brilliant white Harley Hardtail chopper crests a nearby hill. It's rider effortlessly pilots his bike down the hill and stops right in front of the biker.
"No, son. This isn't quite Hell," the old man says, taking off his helmet. He is in all white leathers with a long white pony tail and flowing white beard. He shakes the biker's hand. "Son, I'm Saint Peter. Welcome to heaven!"
"But..." the biker stutters, "I'm dead? I had plans! Things to do! And, now I'm dead?!?!?! God really does hate me!"
St. Peter scowled, "Shush, man! The boss doesn't like that kind of talk! And, it's bullshit! Let's look at your last evening on earth, shall we?"
"Remember that diner where the cute waitress gave you that black coffee and her phone number? HA! That was espresso to keep your butt awake. And that first little thunderstorm? Same thing. Getting lost and running out of gas? Why didn't you just get off the road, pitch your tent and have a drink?" St. Peter shakes his head.
"Remember that road getting worse? We were working our butts off to get that done before you got there. Those signs, and the road, the weather, the bridges, the machine shed... we did it all to save your sorry ass. YOU just had to make the choice to stop."
Then St. Peter lowered his voice and winked. "We even offered you free beer, hamburgers and," he cleared his throat," the company of two beautiful, intelligent, single women. That was Michael's idea."
"But no, you had to go on..." he trails off to a sad whisper. "God doesn't hate you. Look at all those opportunities he offered. You were too blinded to see. That's the same with most down there."
Gentle tears running down St. Peter's face, he puts his helmet on and fires up his bike. "Let's go, son."