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           Saying Good-bye


The most beautiful sight that I have ever seen,
Is of a little old man on his foreign machine;
He was sitting in line waiting to pay,
At the entrance of a campground on a hot summer day;

His bike was all dirty and covered with grime,
You could tell he had been riding a very long time;
I told him he could camp anywhere that he liked,
He just stood there for minute and looked at his bike;

He pushed his bike up under a tree,
Sitting for a moment just looking at me;
He looked to me like he was saying goodbye,
I wanted to know the who, where and why;

He pulled out a tarp, bungies and bag,
Then wiped down his bike with a greasy old rag;
He placed his bag real close to his bike,
Laid down and went to sleep for the night;

I saw him downtown early the next day,
He looked so sad, so lonely, so far away;
I walked up to him and asked if he was all right,
He told me he had never seen such a sight;

The women riding so tough on their bikes,
In skimpy little shorts, or pants so tight;
The men looked the same so full of pride,
Standing and protecting their radical rides;

Some forty-nine years ago, he said, we started a ride,
My brothers, my sisters, my wife and I;
From Michigan lakes to Dakota hills,
On our Harley machines, those wonderful wheels;

We never thought it would come to this,
A sight that I knew, I couldn’t miss;
You see little lady, this is my last time,
I just came to tell a very old friend goodbye;

Young lady I have lived a very, very long life,
I have lost all my friends and even my wife;
My daughter and my son are both gone too,
I have done all the things I have wanted to do;
 
As I said, I am, just here to say goodbye,
To a very old friend before I die;
Pappy and I are all that are left,
I just cannot keep traveling, every year out west;

I had to tell this wonderful man goodbye,
I did not want him to see the tears in my eyes;
I saw Pappy later on that afternoon,
I had a feeling he would also be leaving soon;

Back at the campground, later that night,
Under the tree was someone else’s bike;
When we got home I heard Pappy died,
I hope my friend got to say his goodbyes;

Sometimes times I see him deep in my dreams,
That little old man on his foreign machine.



                               Written By an Old Time Old Lady
                               Living with an Old time Man.
                                     Mrs. Maddog
                                  (Cindy Harris 2004)
                                 Mrsmaddog1@aol.com>

Postscript: Pappy Hoyle was one of the originators of the Sturgis Black Hills Rally
 

 

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