Ashby Grange

F6Rider Webzine Article
November 3, 2000

David Charron
VRCC Member 3166

TOWNSEND MASS. -- David Charron, 47, of 2 Stearns Ave., formerly of Fitchburg,
died at home Monday morning, Oct. 30.
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The alarm goes off at 3:45 a.m. – the coffee has already started brewing, and I instantly know that I am going to need it today.  A few moments of quiet reflection with my coffee at the kitchen table – I’m riding to DC’s funeral today.  I realize that I never hugged DC - I want to linger a while and understand why there are so many people I haven’t hugged, but time is short – I’m meeting the other Connecticut riders at 6:30 a.m.

Before I go, there are red and black ribbons to be tied to the antenna and a quiet invitation to DC to ride along, and then I’m out of the driveway at 5 a.m. in the deep cold darkness of this November New England morning.  Knowing that others have probably been on the road for three hours already warms me as I roll onto the Merritt Parkway.

The Maine riders have the longest ride; but, if I’m not mistaken, there are Valkyries moving through this November darkness in New Hampshire, Vermont, Rhode Island and Massachusetts as well – we are all converging on the little town of Townsend, Massachusetts.

Turning north on Route 8, I feel the temperature drop.  I am leaving the warmer air along Long Island sound for the cooler inland valley.  The thermometer drops to 36 and I turn up the thermostat on my electric vest a notch to compensate as the sky slowly becomes lighter.  I know the sun is rising – I can’t see it yet – but I see the preamble of the dawn in the reddish tint of the steam rising from factories in Naugatuck – and I’m thinking about hugs.

I-84 East takes me to the truck stop in Southington where I meet up with Randy, Brett and Buffalo Bill – a handshake first – then, in turn, I hug each of them.  We are each grieving in our own way, - my hug says, “I’m glad I know you and I share your grief.”  I feel better, and I hope they do too.

Back on I-84 we are headed north to Massachusetts.  Passing through Farmington I look to the left – for no apparent reason – and catch a glimpse of a hawk sitting high in a birch tree.  In a great burst of energy, he flies from his perch directly towards us, banks sharply to the left, soars directly above us only momentarily before banking away.

We’re not the first to arrive in Townsend: 

I am touched at the sight of 31 bikes with red and black ribbons representing six states parked across from the funeral home.

I am touched that Sherry made ribbons for everyone to wear. I am touched that there is standing room only in the funeral home.

Imagine, if you can, a police car followed by 31 bikes preceding the hearse - with at least as many cars following.

Imagine, if you can, oncoming traffic slowing to a standstill to witness the passing of this procession.

Imagine, if you can, conversation on the sidewalk stopping in mid-sentence as we passed.

Three weeks ago, when the leaves were in full color, this drive from Townsend to Ashby would have been a spectacular ride.  But now, most of the leaves are gone – the ones that are left are a deep brown color – and they are in contrast with the bare branches that have already shed their beauty – the green of the pines – and the brilliant white bark of the birch trees.  The smell of wood smoke is in the air, and I am reminded that,  in death, the tree returns its energy to all of us.  Looking in my mirrors at the seemingly endless stream of Valkyrie headlights behind me – I sense DC’s energy reflected in all of us.

Later, we gather at the American Legion for refreshments and remembrances.  We are sometimes quiet – sometimes boisterous – we are grateful when folks attending the funeral ask about our bikes - perhaps because none of us can articulate what seems so clearly felt in our hearts.

In the shadow of Ashby Grange, next door to the American Legion, a solemn knowing moment arrives when Maine Man and I hug.  Though he and I are silent – we know that we are shouting.

Those things, which are beyond words, have been said today by riders and ribbons and hugs.

Birches, wood smoke and Ashby Grange will always remind me that I never hugged DC. 

I wish I had...

Don Hibbard “The Connecticut Yankee”
Stamford, Connecticut
David Charron Memorial Page