Nobody rides the last mile alone

Wes's sister called the shop on a Tuesday. She didn't ride. She said her brother had told her about a tent on Main Street where somebody had given him water and asked how his week was, and she thought we might know what to do about a funeral for a man whose friends were all on motorcycles.

We didn't remember him. That's the honest truth. Hundreds of people come through the tent. But Bo checked the clipboard and found his name and a note: 'Wes, from Ocala, asked us to pray for his sister.'

Saturday, 10 AM

We put the word out on the Wednesday. By Saturday there were forty-one bikes in the funeral home lot, from our ministry, from two clubs he rode with and from a few people who had just seen the post.

We rode in two columns at the speed limit, flags on the lead bikes, Hank at the front and the hearse in the middle. At the cemetery we parked in a half-circle and cut engines all at once. That silence is the loudest thing a pack of bikes can do.

His sister comes to the tent every Bike Week now. She brings the sandwiches.