The A 59ers



So Long, Old Friend
In loving memory of
John T. VandeCorput

     How does one describe a legend? How do you describe a person who defies description? John VandeCorput--Crow--was that type of person. He was the man who defied description. In appearance he was "the evil biker" personified. At six foot, four inches with curly blonde hair that streamed midway down his broad back, and the requisite missing front tooth, he looked to be the person your mother warned you about. But moments after you met him, you realized he was the total opposite of what he looked to be. He was warm, funny, loving and lovable.

The man didn't have an enemy in the world. The line that stretched from the front doors of the funeral parlor, down the steps and halfway down the block is a testament to the lives he touched, the people who loved him. He wasn't immortal, but in our eyes, he was close. Friends from as far away as North Dakota dropped what they were doing, risking the loss of their jobs, to drive straight through to Seymour, Wisconsin to be at his funeral. Grown men, most of them also "evil biker" types, cried without embarrassment, not bothering to wipe away the tears.

Crow lived his life the way he wanted to, without apology, without trying to fit in or conform. He lived his life the way all of us wish we could live ours. He worked enough to support himself and his two daughters, and to buy the things that he wanted. His greatest joy was riding, his only material love was his bike. He rode wherever and whenever he could, always managing to look uncomfortable in a car.

     Crow was a friend, a true friend. He lost his life offering help to someone who'd run his car off the road. When he found out the man already had help coming, he decided to head home, less than four miles away. In less than a minute, he was dead, struck from behind by a pick-up truck that was driven by a man who'd been drinking since early evening. It was shortly before three in the morning, he was thirty-eight years old.

So Long, Old Friend

by JzyNails

The gypsy wind, it called your name,
No time to say good-bye.
You left us here alone, old friend,
To take your final ride.

The world it couldn't tame your soul,
You lived your life with pride.
Now you soar free - like the crow,
You're on your final ride.

Your memory won't fade, old friend,
We'll hold you deep inside.
We'd come with you if, we only could,
Upon your final ride.

It's time to say so long, old friend,
As you take your final ride.
We'll keep you with us in our hearts,
If not riding by our side.


By: Debbie Scharibone
(Taken from Windy City Riders, VOC Newsletter)

I soar away into speed's breeze,
the engine's power
between my knees.

The throttle trembles in my hand-
at my control,
at my command!

In the droning rumble
of the motor's sound
my problems, troubles
and cares are drowned.

Nothing keeps me
from the sky,
and I can ride
where eagles fly!

1 dig my heels
into the pegs,
tune every muscle
'till my legs are synchronized
with my machine,
to feel the curves
and with it lean,
to live the thrills
of sudden hills,
the heart-quickening
panic of would-be spills.

Don't call me back
to earth again
where 1 must walk
like other men.


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