Remembering the man who loved and inspired us

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He cared about us, even though he never rode a motorcycle.  He took us in, our ragged group of foul traveling misfits, and covered us with kindness, overflowing in sincerity, abounding in grace despite not understanding the machines we rode.

As the years passed, Myrin Bentz, a retired Lutheran minister, became part of our motorcycle family and his home, Morning Song Acres, became the unofficial Mild Hogs clubhouse.  This sprawling three story oasis from life was the place where our obnoxious clan was asked (forced?) to pray over our dinner, then made to sing from the Lutheran hymnal before ever lifting a fork as his wife Audrey played an out of tune piano.  We learned to say “yes ma’am” and “no thank you ma’am” to her with the most respect we could muster, and never a hint of sarcasm, then reached for things high up on the shelf for her that she had no chance of reaching.  How they got there in the first place I have no idea.

Myrin, standing, praying over our meal together.

Recently, upon returning from our annual June trip, we learned that Myrin had lost his battle with Alzheimers.  Our group felt the loss.  Here was a man who never rode a motorcycle and, as far as I know, never even threw a leg over one, yet understood more than any of us that it was not about the ride, but about relationships.  Myrin built those relationships while having to endure our coarse joking, my occasional cigar smoking, all the while tolerating our stories of jail-worthy hooligan road antics, staring at us with the quiet consternation of a father’s concern.  Sometimes, I would tone down my stories not for fear of word getting out to the county sheriff, but for fear of disappointing Myrin.

We will all miss Myrin, but if he were still here, I know what his wish for us would be.  He would instruct us to cherish the time we have with the ones that are still here, to hold fast to each other and treat the hours with our loved ones like the fleeting gift it is.  He understood that tomorrow is not guaranteed to any soul and looking too far forward to an uncontrollable future generates a myriad of anxieties.  Let go of tomorrow, unchain the past, cherish the present.  Lessons from the master.

Rob Brooks, editor-in-chief of Road Dirt Motorcycle Media, flew up to visit the area around Morning Sing Acres after hearing my stories. He was not disappointed.

The week before Myrin’s passing, on our annual June ride, our crusty crew of eleven spent the week speeding around the Pacific Northwest’s interior and coastline, strafing mountain passes, basking in hot tubs that overlooked the Pacific Ocean and scarfing down clam chowder in edible bread bowls.  A few lucky ones like me sat in the pilot’s seat of one of the greatest pieces of aviation history, the Spruce Goose.  I am honored to have shared flight controls and butt space with Howard Hughes.

Among our group of eleven were family and friends close enough to call the same.  At one point I looked ahead and saw my brother-in-law, my cousin, and my 81 year old father all leaning through the same corner.  Everyone was at high speed, at the same lean angle, spaced perfectly in harmony like the Blue Angels in formation.  Following Myrin’s template, I let go of the future, not thinking about our destination or how cold I was or how much gas I had left in the tank. I channeled him and enjoyed the present, basking in how amazing it is that our family shares the wonder of velocity, all expert riders, all adventurers, all getting along seamlessly.  A gift from heaven I don’t question.

The front of Morning Song Acres is all glass for panoramic views of the Cascade Range and Mt. Hood beyond.

Myrin taught us that relationships like these are what life is all about, and while we enjoy the speed, scenery and adventure, the joy is magnified because we do it with each other.  A motorcycle just happens to be the perfect tool for developing those relationships.  Myrin understood this, having never ridden one.

Several years ago when Myrin and Audrey sold Morning Song Acres, the upkeep of the giant home and expansive property was becoming too much, so our group planned a grand farewell.  We rode our throng of bikes there as a final grand salute to the house, and a thank you to Myrin and Audrey.  We emptied the kitchen bringing everything from a super fast Honda Blackbird to a Yamaha R1 with a ghost black Ferrari 458 Italia thrown in for good measure.  At our final dinner prayer with Myrin on the last night, Alzheimers beginning to firm its grip on him, hands shaking, voice trembling, mind searching for words, he softly, quietly, humbly gave thanks for his giant home and the lives that have been altered by just passing though.  He ended by calling us family.

I cried.

A speedy final tribute to Myrin, Audrey and Morning Song Acres.

When I left the house for that final time, I read the Native America poem hanging on the wall for which the house was named:

MORNING SONG

Let your heart
Sing the morning song,
Humming in harmony
With the Meadowlark,
Announcing the beauty of sunrise.

Behold the breath of life
All around you;
Creatures of the earth
Awakening to the power of The Creator.

Serenity is carried
On the wings of the eagle,
To circle and lift your spirit.

Let your heart
Sing the morning song,
The dew of the dawn
Declares a new day!

Howard T. Rainer
Taos Pueblo-Creek Indian

Ted