I Always Hated Bikers But Today I Have to Play Piano at Funeral of Old Biker Who Died Alone
The elderly motorcyclist passed away all by himself, and I received $50 to play the piano at his funeral, which was attended by no mourners.
Embarrassed that no one had come to see Walter “Ghost” McKenna’s 74 years on this planet—no family, no friends—the funeral director had phoned me at the last minute.
When the doors of the funeral home suddenly flew open and a young girl in a wheelchair pulled herself down the aisle, sobbing so hard she could hardly breathe, I was sitting at the piano and playing for a crowd of empty pews and one closed casket.
Perhaps nine years old, she clutched a battered leather jacket ten times too large for her small frame, and her legs were obviously paralyzed.
“You can’t begin yet!” she cried as she wheeled herself straight up to the coffin. “The others will arrive! Ghost wouldn’t want to travel by himself!
I didn’t know who this kid was or why she was referring to a deceased motorcyclist as “Ghost” as if they were old friends. The funeral director, who was looking through his papers for any reference to a girl, appeared equally perplexed.
“Are you family, sweetie?” Gently, he inquired.
“He is my ghost,” she declared angrily. “I was saved by him. We were all saved by him. I contacted everyone, and they’re on their way. Don’t bury him just yet, please. Please.
We heard them before anyone could answer. motorbikes. Not a handful, but dozens, based on the sound. Hundreds, perhaps. The funeral home windows rattled as the quake became louder.
Despite her tears, the young girl grinned. “I promised they would arrive.”
Everything I had previously believed about motorcycle riders, judgment, and the man in that closed casket—who had evidently led a life so quietly lovely that even death couldn’t conceal it—was altered by what transpired next.
They filed in as the funeral home’s doors opened once more. Yes, bikers, but also scrub nurses. White-coated doctors. parents with kids.
Walkers are used by the elderly. They continued to arrive until the little chapel was bursting at the seams, spilling out onto the lawn and into the corridor.
A woman in a business suit hurried to the young child, pushing her way through the mob.
“Mia! You cannot simply walk out of the hospital—
“It’s Ghost, Mom,” the girl said. “I had to show up. Without me, he wouldn’t comprehend.
The mother’s expression twisted. She glanced first at the coffin and then at the assembling crowd. “Oh my God. Did he die? When? Why wasn’t we informed?
The director of the funeral cleared his throat. There was no next of kin listed for Mr. McKenna, ma’am. No contacts for emergencies. We looked everywhere for someone, but—
A huge biker wearing the vest “ROAD CAPTAIN” interrupted, “That’s because Ghost never kept records.” “Never desired recognition. I never desired gratitude. I only wanted to assist.
He looked around the room. “How many of you were aware that Walter McKenna was Ghost’s real name?”
No one raised their hands.
“How many of you were aware of his residence?”
Nothing again.
“And how many of you had Ghost change or save your lives?”
All the hands in the room raised. as well as little Mia’s.
The Road Captain gave a nod. For you, that is Ghost. The man loved like a hurricane and lived like a shadow.
With a heavy cane lean, an old woman stepped forward.
Her voice trembled as she spoke, “I met Ghost twelve years ago.”
“My spouse had recently passed away. I was too proud to ask for assistance, therefore I didn’t have any money for groceries. I’m still not sure how Ghost found out.
I would discover bags of food on my porch every week for three months, until my pension started to pay off.
I only saw him once, before morning, riding away on that vintage Harley. You never spoke to me. Never expressed gratitude.
Next to speak was a man wearing a doctor’s coat.
Five years ago, Ghost took a teenager to the emergency room. He was discovered in an alley after the kid overdosed.
While we helped the boy get over withdrawal, Ghost stayed for three days. paid for his own rehabilitation.
My son is that teenager. He is now in college and has been clean for three years. We have no idea what Ghost’s last name was.
According to a young woman with artificial legs, “He taught me to ride.”
“I believed my life was over after my accident. Ghost arrived at the rehabilitation facility on a modified tricycle.
claimed that the wheels you choose to use in life were more important than your legs. Because of him, I now compete in the Paralympic Games.
They told their stories one by one. Ghost had covered the cost of cancer care. rescued women who had been abused. Veterans who are homeless are fed.
Cars for single moms were fixed. taught children with disabilities how to ride. constructed ramps for wheelchairs. During snowstorms, medications were delivered.
But everyone was broken by Mia’s narrative.
“Two years ago,” her mom started.
Mia was involved in the accident that left her disabled. My spouse abandoned us. Taking care of her cost me my job. Our automobile served as our home.
We were discovered by Ghost in a parking lot. Mia was crying because she no longer had access to a wheelchair or special transportation to get to school.
She stopped and wiped her tears.
Ghost remained silent. just inquired about Mia’s needs. He arrived the following day with a specially made wheelchair.
He had assembled a construction crew the following day, all of whom were bikers, to install ramps at the school.
He had made arrangements for medical supplies, transportation, and even physical therapy in less than a week. Never requested a cent.
He never even said his name to us. Because he would show up when we needed help and then disappear before we could express our gratitude, Mia began referring to him as Ghost.
Mia whispered, “He came every week.” “To see how I’m doing. delivered books about powerful women to me. I claimed that having to battle harder than everyone else because I was in a wheelchair made me warrior-strong rather than weak.
He acquired an old keyboard and was using it to teach me how to play the piano. compared music to cycling, saying that it all comes down to establishing your groove.
Still sitting at the piano in the funeral home, she gave me a look.
Would you be able to perform “Amazing Grace”? It was his favorite. Sometimes, when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, he hummed it.
Something spectacular happened when I started to play. The motorcyclists started taking off their vests one by one and laying them on Ghost’s coffin.
They were giving them as parting tributes to a guy who had reportedly impacted more lives than anyone knew. Each vest had patches and pins that conveyed a tale.
Once more, the Road Captain spoke. Ghost never donned the colors of the club. claimed that he could identify his brothers without the need of a patch. He was the best of us, though. the model that we all attempted to emulate.
“Why wasn’t anyone aware of his illness?” Someone yelled. “Just as he helped us, we would have helped him.”
Near the rear, an elderly motorcyclist responded. “Because Ghost wasn’t like that. Ghost had been battling cancer for three years, as his landlady had informed him.
Don’t tell anyone. continued to assist others to the very end. Three days ago, the landlord discovered him sitting in his chair and perusing a photo album.
After a brief absence, the funeral director reappeared with a battered album.
“This was with his belongings,” he explained, cautiously opening it.
There were several photos in the album. It was almost impossible to find any of Ghost. Rather, it was crammed with pictures of everyone he had assisted. The new wheelchair that Mia is using.
The funeral card and thank-you note from the old woman’s husband. The letter of admittance to college from the recovered addict. Kids riding bikes with modifications. Veterans at rallies for motorcycles.
In Ghost’s unsteady handwriting, there was a little comment in each picture:
“Mia got straight As this semester.” “Tom remained sober for an additional year.” “Maria’s cancer is no longer present.” “Bobby is walking once more.”
He had been monitoring everyone, privately rejoicing in their triumphs, and never aiming for praise.
An ancient, fading photo of a younger Ghost riding a motorcycle with a woman and a young son was located near the back of the album. The sole picture of the family in the whole album.
The Road Captain inhaled deeply. Jenny and Little Walter are there. Ghost’s son and wife. killed in 1998 by a drunk driver. Ghost, who was riding separately, witnessed everything. Never get married again. They were never discussed. However, everything makes sense now.
“What makes sense?” Mia inquired.
Why Ghost was so helpful to everyone. He dedicated the remainder of his life to saving the lives of others because he was unable to save his own.
With the exception of my piano playing, the room became quiet. Mia wheeled herself over to me after that.
“Am I allowed?” she said, pointing to the piano bench.
I assisted her in getting off her wheelchair and onto the bench. Her tiny fingers located the keys and selected a basic tune that Ghost had reportedly taught her. Even though it was wobbly and flawed, it was so full of love that adult men were wiping their eyes.
She muttered, “He said I’d play Carnegie Hall someday.” “Said that if someone played from the heart, nothing could stop them.”
There was now standing space only at the funeral, which had begun with an empty room. What started off as a brief, solitary service evolved into a three-hour celebration of a life dedicated to helping others.
They told one story after another. Laughter and tears mixed together. The funeral director had to open more rooms and bring in extra seats.
The motorbike procession lasted for miles when the burial time came. Hundreds of motorcycles, whose riders had learned about Ghost’s death through rumors.
Cars respectfully stopped. People left their homes to observe. When the local reporters arrived, they attempted to figure out why so many people had come to see a man who had no formal family.
Mia demanded to be carried out of her wheelchair at the cemetery so she could toss the first handful of dirt onto the coffin.
“Ghost, thank you,” she stated plainly. For instilling in me the value of strength. for demonstrating to me that the best way to cure oneself is to serve others. When I grow up, I swear to be just like you.
“Ghost never wanted a motorcycle club,” the Road Captain declared after assisting her back into her chair. However, we are creating one today in his honor. The Riders of the Ghost.
Not about reputation or territory. Regarding the principles that Ghost stood for: lending a hand without being asked, giving without expecting recognition, and loving without restrictions.
On the spot, more than two hundred people signed up.
I saw Mia’s mother, who appeared anxious, counting out dollars as everyone started to depart.
“What’s the matter?” I inquired.
“We were brought by the wheelchair van. There isn’t enough for the trip back. To get Mia here, I did everything in my power.
The Road Captain heard before I could reply.
He handed her an envelope and added, “Ghost took care of it.” discovered this letter, addressed to Mia, in his flat. A note is present.
Her hands trembled as she opened it. There was a letter and $5,000 in cash inside:
“Mia, I couldn’t teach you that Carnegie Hall piece personally, if you’re reading this. But I’m not necessary for you. You didn’t. The strongest person I’ve ever met is you. Your piano lessons will be covered by this money.
Don’t allow your mother to use it to pay expenses. It’s for your dream. Recall that how we support people through their experiences defines us, not what happens to us. Continue to play.
Continue to fight. Continue assisting others in rising again. Always your friend, The Ghost P.S. – Look after your mother. She is also powerful than she realizes.
Mia sobbed as she held the letter to her chest. Her mother embraced her.
The mother muttered, “He knew.” He knew he was running out of time somehow. He was arranging everything and ensuring that everyone would be alright.
I received an invitation to a special concert six months later. Thanks in part to Ghost’s gift and in part to the new Ghost Riders MC, who had adopted her as their honorary youngest member, Mia had been admitted into a prominent music program for challenged youngsters.
Her fingers found grace and strength on the keys as she played with beauty. As this little girl in a wheelchair played Ghost’s favorite song, hundreds of leather-clad motorcyclists sat in the audience, tears running down their faces.
The only picture they could find of Ghost sitting on his vintage Harley and practically grinning was the one they had put over the stage. There was a plaque beside it:
As a tribute to Walter “Ghost” McKenna (1949–2023), “We rise by lifting others.”
The Road Captain came up to me after the show.
As he handed me a key, he remarked, “Ghost left something else.” “His Harley.” Give it to the person who played the piano at his burial, the note instructed.
said that anyone who performs for an empty room knows that sometimes the most significant audiences are those that are hidden from view.
I felt the weight of the key as I took it. I had never in my life rode a motorcycle. However, something about Ghost’s tale, Mia’s bravery, and how one man’s simple kindness united all of these people compelled me to learn more.
Three years later, I visit Mia at Juilliard on Ghost’s old Harley. As promised by Ghost, she did really make it. She is the youngest student ever accepted into the program for adaptive music.
The Ghost Riders also get together every Saturday. To carry on Ghost’s task, not for enjoyment or fame. We locate those in need and assist them. Silently. Without much fanfare. Frequently, they never find out who we are.
Because Ghost showed us that the best type of assistance is that which is given without expecting anything in return. Those who support others while battling their own issues are the strongest.
And sometimes the funerals that begin with empty halls and end with hearts full of love are the most beautiful.
Ghost believed he was alone when he died. However, he had dedicated his life to ensuring that no one else ever would be.
We’re not now, either.
It reminds me of that abandoned funeral home every time I ride his old Harley. Regarding the young girl who resisted allowing him to be buried by himself. Regarding the hundreds of people who came to pay tribute to a man whose last name they had never heard of.
And I can see why he made the decision to live the way he did. Because of his losses, not despite them. transforming suffering into meaning. Turn your sorrow into grace.
The ghost has vanished. However, ghosts never truly go away by nature.
All they do is encourage others to continue their efforts.
One weeping child at a time, one wheelchair ramp, one hospital cost.
That is Ghost’s true funeral—not the one that took place in a cemetery, but the one that goes on each time someone lends a helping hand to a complete stranger without expecting recognition.
The never-ending funeral.
love that last forever.
