A guy in our church died last week and the funeral service was Tuesday. His name is Dan. He was an avid life-long motorcyclist. He would ride from one end of the country to the other on a whim. He was a flat track fanatic. For years he would pack up the family and follow the races. One of his sons raced flat track for a while. He was also a surveyor and his company put most of the lines on the map in this part of the world.
The family asked me to organize a group of riders for the funeral procession. There are a lot of riders in our church so that was no problem. So twelve of us showed up. One of the grandsons rode Dan's Goldwing and another grandson rode Dan's 1960 sportster. They led the procession and we all followed to the cemetery where he was laid to rest. Six of his grandsons were pall bearers. The family thanked all the riders for showing up and told us how much Dan would have liked this. The family was very appreciative. It was a very interesting experience, particularly watching his grandsons ride his bikes in the procession.
It got me in a somewhat introspective mood. Standing there in that old rural family cemetery, sandy soil, big tall oak trees with hanging moss, the low filtered light of the setting sun and watching the various emotions play out among family members. I thought that no matter what I do in life this is the way it ends. Shake it off man. When it was over I started the goose, rode out of there respectfully and got on the road, cranked that throttle, blasted down the road feeling the wind whip at me, listening to the guzzi honk, digging the feeling of the road rolling under the tires and rode for a while just happy to still be alive.
