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....I thought it fitting to end my little saga on the day we buried a fellow rider. Sean Powers, age 24, a motorcycle rider, local policeman and a fellow Marine who did 2 tours recently in Iraq, was laid to rest at the NH Veterans Cemetery on a beautiful autumn like summer afternoon in a rural NH setting. He was killed on his bike, heading home after work late at night, rear ended by some young drunken moron. Although I did not know him personally, I was drawn to attend his burial service, being a former Marine myself and having a son of the same age who has also seen plenty of action overseas, including Iraq.
I rode my GS1100G up the back roads of central NH with my 13 year old daughter. The day had started out rainy, but the clouds eventually broke to blue sky, bright sun, and cool temps. A perfect day to start backwards in time on a bike ride!
As we entered the cemetery, before the motorcade arrived and crowds had formed, I looked over the neat rows of gravestones marking the names of folks from the last century who served and either died in action or later in their lives, forever changed by things they saw and did. Soon the mourners appeared, trailing the Harley trike pulling a hearse loaded with the flag draped coffin protected by glass sides. I stood at the edge of the grassy knoll away from the tented gravesite, panning the hundreds of people who now gathered, and noticed young and old folks, men in suits, others in torn jeans and leather vests, every type of uniform - both military and from law enforcement. The familiar sound of taps started, giving way to the bag piper’s sounds of Amazing Grace. Then without pause, they started to play the Marine Corps hymn, and as any Marine out there knows, unconsciously I started quietly singing those words etched in memory from my days at Parris Island 32 years ago.
Many years of solo riding and no one to concern myself with, turned into almost 20 years of raising 6 kids minus any bikes. Wondering how I had made it out of those early reckless days into the present, standing beside my beautiful teenage daughter. As the preacher’s words ended, you could hear the muted sobs of the family as the 21 gun salute shocked everyone back to their surroundings. When the casket was carefully lowered into the ground, I looked up and noticed how blue the sky had become against the puffy white clouds. The sun shone bright now as the crowd stood, hesitating, and slowly starting to disperse as if unsure of whether to leave.
It was then I realized it could have been 30 years ago, a young man stopping and getting off his Norton, and looking up at that same blue sky wondering what the next day will bring. Or even if there would be a next day. We walked to the old GS, put our gear on, and I glanced at my young daughter donning the same scuffed up, black leather riding jacket that I used to fit in many years ago and somehow managed to hang onto. Riding quietly past the crowd and exiting the cemetery, opening up the throttle, hearing the clunk of shifting gears, feeling the rush of the wind, heading on down the road. Outwardly I am different person, but inside still the same kid with that sh*t eating grin on my bike.
So enjoy your next day (if you get it?) and that feeling you’ll only get riding down those country roads.
The End
I rode my GS1100G up the back roads of central NH with my 13 year old daughter. The day had started out rainy, but the clouds eventually broke to blue sky, bright sun, and cool temps. A perfect day to start backwards in time on a bike ride!
As we entered the cemetery, before the motorcade arrived and crowds had formed, I looked over the neat rows of gravestones marking the names of folks from the last century who served and either died in action or later in their lives, forever changed by things they saw and did. Soon the mourners appeared, trailing the Harley trike pulling a hearse loaded with the flag draped coffin protected by glass sides. I stood at the edge of the grassy knoll away from the tented gravesite, panning the hundreds of people who now gathered, and noticed young and old folks, men in suits, others in torn jeans and leather vests, every type of uniform - both military and from law enforcement. The familiar sound of taps started, giving way to the bag piper’s sounds of Amazing Grace. Then without pause, they started to play the Marine Corps hymn, and as any Marine out there knows, unconsciously I started quietly singing those words etched in memory from my days at Parris Island 32 years ago.
Many years of solo riding and no one to concern myself with, turned into almost 20 years of raising 6 kids minus any bikes. Wondering how I had made it out of those early reckless days into the present, standing beside my beautiful teenage daughter. As the preacher’s words ended, you could hear the muted sobs of the family as the 21 gun salute shocked everyone back to their surroundings. When the casket was carefully lowered into the ground, I looked up and noticed how blue the sky had become against the puffy white clouds. The sun shone bright now as the crowd stood, hesitating, and slowly starting to disperse as if unsure of whether to leave.
It was then I realized it could have been 30 years ago, a young man stopping and getting off his Norton, and looking up at that same blue sky wondering what the next day will bring. Or even if there would be a next day. We walked to the old GS, put our gear on, and I glanced at my young daughter donning the same scuffed up, black leather riding jacket that I used to fit in many years ago and somehow managed to hang onto. Riding quietly past the crowd and exiting the cemetery, opening up the throttle, hearing the clunk of shifting gears, feeling the rush of the wind, heading on down the road. Outwardly I am different person, but inside still the same kid with that sh*t eating grin on my bike.
So enjoy your next day (if you get it?) and that feeling you’ll only get riding down those country roads.
The End
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