The article “The Cure for Grief” by Bud Miller was originally published on the “RoadRUNNER Motorcycle Touring & Travel” magazine website on 2/24/2013.
The Cure for Grief is movement. I’m not sure where I first heard that but once I did I never forgot it. The motorcycle has been my cure for grief for as long as I’ve been riding. Motorcycling is largely about repetition and ritual—doing things the same way each time. Repetition and ritual keep us safe; going through our mental checklists protects us from harm in a sense, at least to the extent that we can protect ourselves. I have a few rituals I’ve developed over the years, some of which have nothing to do with safety.
I live just outside of town and most of my rides end with me going through town, past the local high school. At some point I started standing on the pegs as I drove by the school, there is never any traffic and my house is only a half a mile or so up the road. It was a chance to put a period on the end of the ride, enjoy the last few miles and celebrate getting home safely. Another ritual was my greeting at the door by Chester, my yellow Labrador retriever whose 100 pound girth I would hear hit the floor upstairs the second I opened the door. He would come lumbering down the steps and around the corner into my mud room with a tennis ball or bone of offering between his teeth.
Chester put the cap on almost every ride I’ve ever taken. Over the past year he became progressively slower to greet 
me but his demeanor never changed, always a puppy’s heart in an increasingly older dog’s body. I’m sure the pat on the head after each ride and the “hey buddy” meant as much to him as it did to me over the years. Perhaps it was as much his ritual as it was mine. Our pets see us through things without ever intending to, by being consistent and unwavering in their loyalty.
Sadly, last week my ritual changed. Chester’s body finally gave out and he passed away quietly after a last meal of roast turkey. I carried him to his favorite place in the house, covered him with a blanket and he eased into his final rest. I sat with him for a while, toasted his memory and tried to summon the strength to do what I knew needed to be done.
It is possible to be so filled with grief that you literally don’t know how to process it; but in the days that followed I suited up and rode out to deal with it since that’s all I could will myself to do. I am reminded of another line from Shawshank Redemption “…part of you does rejoice… But still the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they’re gone. I guess I just miss my friend.” I still expect, after a ride, to hear the sound of his feet padding down the steps and have to remind myself that he won’t be there.
So my post ride ritual (many years in the making) has changed now—and it’s oh so achingly difficult to adjust to. But for now it’s enough to ride out and remember, with a smile and more than a few tears, all the things Chester and I have seen each other through over the 12 years we had together—events both joyous and tragic. His is yet another soul I’ll carry with me on every ride until my last.