The Ride Report

I have sad duty tomorrow: a funeral for a friend who killed himself.

Apache prospected for the club for awhile, really gung-ho, good prospect, rode well, worked hard, everybody liked him. But then he had trouble with his girlfriend and with his job and with what must have been a lot of other stuff we didn’t know about, because he up and quit after awhile. He said he had personal stuff to deal with and couldn’t give the club as much time and attention as he wanted to, so out of respect for the club he wanted to quit prospecting until he straightened his shit out. We weren’t happy about it — we all liked him and were sorry to see him go — but we understood and told him to let us know when he was ready to come back.

At our last church his ex-sponsor let us know that he wanted to come back. We said to tell him he was welcome and to come on back.

The next day he killed himself.

I’ll always remember the last time I saw him: It was a few months after he’d quit prospecting. I was sitting at a red light in my car with my wife and daughter, when Apache came lane-splitting past us up to the front of the line. I rolled down my window and yelled after him but he didn’t hear me. The light turned green, he turned left, and he was gone and out of sight by the time I got to the intersection. I never saw him again.

I like that he was on his bike the last time I saw him alive. It’s a good way to remember him.

RIP, Prospect Apache. I wish you could have stuck it out, I was looking forward to calling you brother. Ride on…