A Paean to Dick

Originally published in Keystone Motorcycle Press, December 2024

Paean. Probably a word Dick would not have been familiar with. Truth be told, every time I use it, I first have to look it up, to see how to spell it and to reassure myself of its proper usage. In this case, it’s the perfect word. He was a man who truly deserves tribute.

I’m not sure he really liked his nickname, for whenever he referred to himself, i.e. answering the phone, he’d use the long form: “Hello, this is Richard.” But, from the start, he was always “Dick” to me and my family. We all first met on the windswept parking lot of the Cody, Wyoming, rodeo grounds. They’re situated right at the exit of the canyon leading to Yellowstone and the wind that funnels through that defile has only two speeds, hurricane and worse. Dick, who hailed from farther south in that state, was the guy who assembled a group of volunteer motorcyclists from Wyoming and its surrounds to help put on the rally that my wife and I were managing for Rider Magazine. That wind didn’t bother Dick. It was second nature to him.

Unlike some of the volunteer leaders we’d had at rallies in other parts of the country, there was no petty politics among Dick and his friends. Theirs was that real western spirit. Not the stupid Texas cowboy hats and Dallas Cowboys variety, but that of the real American West’s rugged individualism and huge hospitality. A big, bear-like guy, he rode a big bike, a Suzuki Cavalcade, and it looked like a 350 Honda under his frame. But the initial intimidation faded immediately when he began to speak in that calm, Sam Elliot-like drawl. After I’d known Dick for a while, as he rode East to help me with a couple more of those big rallies, I understood why nothing as monumental to me as crisscrossing the country on a bike phased him in the least.

We’d taken my teenage son to Cody for the experience. It was his first exposure to the wide-open spaces and to the culture it engenders. To keep him occupied, I put him under Dick’s command. Dick took a real shine to him and whenever we spoke, right up to the end, he’d always ask about Colin first thing. I often suspected that was the relationship he valued most.

Dick was a Navy veteran and had been on one of those river patrol boats in Vietnam. I can’t exactly remember when, over the course of our 30- year friendship, he confided in me, but apparently the crew of his boat had shot up a sampan carrying an innocent family. That’s the kind of scar that you can never outlive, and it probably explains why I never saw Dick take a drink. My guess is that he had been way down that road and somehow managed to come back.

A couple of my favorite memories involved visits to our home in Lititz. I don’t recall why they’d ventured East, but one day he and two companions showed up on their bikes, with camping trailers in tow. They quickly commandeered our back yard and set up camp to the absolute delightful amazement of my neighbors. While they were there, I thought I’d give them a treat. So, one morning we all saddled up and I took Dick and his friends down through Wyeth country in nearby Chester County.

If you’ve ever been there you know it’s a hilly place, honeycombed with narrow roads that are deeply shadowed by overhanging trees. Only occasionally do you come across a clearing with a building or farm house right out of a George Washington movie. Turned out they hated that ride. I think Dick used the word “claustrophobic.” It was nothing but blind curves and suffocating vegetation to them. Seems that only our interstates gave them any semblance of the broad vistas they were comfortable riding.

Another time, when he was working RV shows around the country, selling some sort of enhancement he’d invented for the ubiquitous Honda generator, he called ahead to say he and his wife, Voda, would be stopping by for a day or two. What he didn’t mention was that they’d be arriving in a monster dualie pulling the biggest fifth-wheel trailer I’d ever seen. Parked along the curb in front of our house, it dwarfed our street and its surrounds for days.

After that, our relationship became all telephonic. He’d call, often from the road, and update me on his and Voda’s travels. Eventually, Dick and the love of his life gave up the gypsy roaming and settled down, back in Wyoming. It was several years later that he called to tell me his wife of 55 years had passed away. He was truly despondent and I feel that this was the beginning of the end for him. Whenever we spoke thereafter, his loneliness was the main topic.

Later he moved from his beloved Wyoming to a mobile home park in Tucson. He had a little dog there and he seemed to have perked up. But one day I called and the phone had been disconnected. Calls to park management revealed that he’d moved out and gone back to Wyoming. When I finally tracked him down, he related that his physical disabilities had finally become too much and he’d moved back to where he still had family. He was living in a retirement home of some sort and all of the spark was gone from his voice.

Dick usually initiated the calls, and this time I waited and waited for one. Finally, after months, and suspecting the worst, I started my Internet search. That’s when my wife sent me the link to his obituary, which said he’d died in March of this year, at age 78, and that, “There will be no services held.” That seemed a sad end for a truly lovable guy, who despite a load of service-related baggage, had managed to carve out a productive, fulfilling life for himself.

Recently I’ve written, in various media, that when it comes to expressions of gratitude, I feel those who have actually experienced combat should be elevated far above the rest of us who simply served. Maybe part of my thinking on this comes from my association with Dick. He was one of those shattered heroes who deserves special respect and attention. It’s tough to lose a friend like that, and we miss you, Richard. Godspeed!

©2024, David B Bucher