RISK
By Jeff Bahr
Are often led astray”
It had begun as an average day. As was his
habit early on weekend mornings, he slung his leg over his eggshell white FLH
police bike, fired it up, and headed off for a short relaxing putt. Now he was
truly in his element. As he lost himself to the lazy staccato beat of the big
twin’s pistons, he wondered why he hadn’t bought a Harley in the first
place. Though he would never knock his two foreign bikes that preceded it,
nothing captivated him as completely as did this retro-styled American behemoth
beneath him. Soon enough he
completed his early morning errands (always his very mature way to justify an
indulgent joy ride), and started back home. He’d have to hustle aplenty to
finish up last minute things if he wished to reach upstate New York and his
biker pals by lunchtime. This
drudgery weighed on his mind as he motored along, as did the thick gray clouds
that were suddenly massing off in the western sky. So much for Zen, he
thought to himself.
The fact that Bob rode a motorcycle at all
was surprising actually, though you would never guess it from his appearance.
His was a near carbon copy image of “Dozer” - the stereotypically definitive
Biker from the movie Mask, and like him, Bob too was a gentle giant with
a love of motorcycles and playful hijinks. But while he undoubtedly looked the
part of a veteran biker and had dreamed of riding since childhood, he had only
recently started at the comparatively ripe age of 30. Why? The reason was pretty
straightforward really. His older brother Richard had nearly severed his right
leg in a freak motorcycling mishap many years before, and their mother had
begged them both to no longer pursue, as she put it: “such a terribly risky sport”. Being a respectful son Bob
complied with her wishes for as long as he could hold out, for many years in
fact, until one fateful day when he found himself standing inside a Harley
Davidson dealership. The lure of the shiny new 1989 police special on display
was too intense to be ignored, and promise or no promise he was determined to
have it. He impulsively summoned a salesman and closed the deal. Afterwards he
tried as best he could to allay his mother’s fears by taking a safety course
and promising her that whenever the choice was his he would exercise prudence
and err on the side of safety. Slowly, over time, his mom began to relax and
even seemed to grow accustomed to the fact that her son had become a
motorcyclist. At least that’s the way it appeared.
Finally on the open road with chores now
behind him, Bob headed north toward New York State. He passed a bike similar to
his and was reminded of the time that he had first ridden his most prized
possession. That day, only three years before and barely five miles from the
dealership, he had misjudged the weight of his formidable mount and laid it down
while making a turn at a stop sign. The incident was a near perfect rendition of
an Arte Johnson bicycle tip over, just like the ones that he’d always found so
hilarious on the Laugh-In. television show. Trouble was it was he, not
Arte, taking the fall this time. Luckily, nothing was really damaged, save for
his pride and a newly added small dimple to the front fender. He decided to
leave the blemish as a reminder to be more careful in the future. The mental
imagery of the mishap brought a smile to his face as he carried on with his
journey. In a short while he met up with his buddies and began to relax. He
wouldn’t have to return home for a couple of hours yet and he planned on
making the absolute most of his Saturday. It was exactly twelve noon.
Just after 4:00 PM that afternoon, a 13-year-old boy from Forestburg N.Y.
heard a loud explosion. Thinking someone lit up fireworks he opened his front
door to investigate and all too quickly realized that the sound came not from an
M-80 but from a horrific multi-vehicle accident in front of his house.
Unfortunately his mom was away buying groceries at the time, so he ran alone to
see what aid he could possibly render. Accident
reports and crash scene investigations would later show that the boy reached Bob
while he was still breathing, and in the most bizarre of coincidences it would
grotesquely and ironically confirm that amongst all of his other massive
injuries, Bob’s right leg was nearly severed – just like his older
brother’s had once been. The boy stayed by his side until Bob drew his final
breath of air. For months afterward the lad would be haunted by that very
memory.
At 4:15 PM EST October 24th 1992
my dear friend Bob McGoldrick lost his life in a head-on collision - on a lonely
stretch of highway, during a bracing October rainstorm. He was 32 years old.
When his parents were notified, they were understandably devastated, as would be
any who must bury a child. At his funeral his riding buddies showed the proper
biker respect by arriving en masse and in missing man formation on their
machines. His brother drank a last toast to him with Bob’s favorite brew, and
then spilled the remaining contents of the can over an eggshell white Harley in
tribute. This raised the eyebrows of the non-biker contingent, but Bob, his pals
said, would’ve wanted it that way. It’s a point that I can’t argue; the
big fellow did so love controversy.
It was a long time before his parents could
even talk about that day, longer still until they could come to grips with the
enormity of the loss, but over time they adapted to the comparative emptiness of
a world that sadly no longer featured their mischevious youngest son. During
that challenging period of adjustment his brother Rich planned another tribute
hoping it would help ease his pain. He secured an FLH police bike, but not
particularly favoring its eggshell color had it painted green, the color best
associated with his Irish heritage. Despite his mother’s continued protests,
Rich rode the bike everywhere. He simply had to. After all, he had a lot of
miles to cover, for as he saw it, he was now riding for two; himself and his
fallen brother Bob.
It’s strange how life sometimes works out. “The best laid schemes”- as Hosford so aptly put it. Fate and chance do factor in heavily, I suppose, though nobody has been able to prove or disprove the ratios or the concepts. I’ll not try here. But this I will say. Risk can be found at every turn and crossroad in life. We can attempt to minimize it, plan for it, try to squelch our fears, but in the final analysis it’s really all for naught. The only ones we’re fooling are ourselves. If you hadn’t guessed already, the big surprise here is that my pal Bob had taken the proper safety precautions just as he’d promised his mom, by prudently deciding NOT to ride his motorcycle on that fateful drizzly day. That’s right. He died not on his “dangerous” Harley but in the comparatively protective cocoon of his sturdily constructed pickup truck. The three people riding in the automobile that struck him did the prudent thing as well, by buckling up for safety. All lost their lives in spite of it.
Today as Bob’s older brother Rich tools about town on his newly painted FLH police bike, he occasionally glances down and remembers. He thinks about his kid brother and how good he was to honor his last promise to their mom and not ride when the conditions were threatening. He also wonders sometimes if his new ride might not look a bit better if it wasn’t sporting a small dimple on the front fender - but of course he has no plans to remove it. For in addition to reminding him of his brother, it reminds him that risk rides along with him - each and every time he leaves home, as it reminded Bob on that rainy morning in October. Despite this rather daunting fact, Rich plans on riding his motorcycle clear through to the end of his natural days, until the very instant that the Grim Reaper finally overtakes him. Anything less wouldn’t really be a satisfying or worthwhile life in his estimation.
I’m sure brother Bob would heartily agree…
So long, pal…
Hi Clanmother,
Just your ole' motorcycle free-lancer checkin' in once again!
I was going through my files, and came across an article that I wrote some time back about my biker pal Bob. I lost him to an accident back in 1992. Anyway, the article is entitled "Risk" but isn't a downer like one may think at first. In fact, it is a celebration of Bob's life, a testament to his love of Harleys, and a real eye-opener where the word risk, and its meaning, is concerned.
If you'd like to post it to your site, that would be great!
His brother still rides and I can direct him to your site.
Oct 24th will mark the 11th year spent without this big lovable badass - his many friends still think of him frequently. I know that I do...
If you have a need, I will send you some destination pieces. Some "lighter" fare, if you will, compared to the ones that I've sent you thus far. Many have been published in non-biker rags, so I would guess most of your readers likely haven't seen them. Let me know...
Thanks, Jeff
Thanks Jeff. We'll be glad to run your stories. Sorry if it takes awhile to get them up on the site. I've really been busy lately. I'm sure somebody out there likes to read about real riding adventures and such.
so here goes: