Every year, a mass is held for those who have died in motorbike accidents. There were 42 new names at this year's event in Clones, Co Monaghan. The close-knit biking community know people see them as 'a wee bit mad' but insist they are not all thrill seekers, writes RÓISÍN INGLE
A DRIZZLY Friday night in Clones, Co Monaghan. It’s standing room only in the Sacred Heart Church where a memorial service with a difference is about to begin. There is soft rock playing on the PA system and gleaming motorbikes displayed on the altar. A “biker priest” in robes sits astride one particularly powerful looking specimen and grins down at the congregation.
The event is the ninth Gone But Not Forgotten mass, an annual commemoration that has become a focal point for the grief and loss of a close-knit community. This is the first time the mass has been held here since being moved from a smaller church in Co Fermanagh to accommodate the crowds of up to 1,500, many of whom will camp in the area overnight.
At the back of the church, men with tattoos and ZZ Top beards mingle with leather-clad women and those dressed more conventionally for mass. A wooden plaque is decorated with the names and photographs of those who are being commemorated. Forty-two names have been added this year. Some are recently deceased while others have been added by family members who want their loved ones remembered in what they consider the most appropriate way.
Standing in front of a table filled with candles commemorating the dead, one of the organisers, Brian McUaid, explains that the service was established to offer support to bereaved families. He also acknowledges that for people outside the biking community, the appeal of a pastime with such inherent dangers is difficult to understand.
“Everyone who has ever thrown a leg over a bike knows the dangers involved, but you accept them and try to minimise risk wherever possible,” he says. “It’s hard to explain the appeal to anyone who doesn’t ride bikes. It really is that cliche: the freedom of the open road. And then it’s just being part of this incredible community,” he says gesturing to the hundreds of bikers chatting in the fading evening light outside the church.
“Being a biker means instant community and camaraderie. You go to pay for petrol anywhere in the country and when you come back there will be someone wanting to talk to you about your bike”.
He says he knows some people view bikers as “a wee bit mad”.
“There is this perception that when a biker dies it is always his fault, but that is not true,” he says, pointing to statistics that show 49 per cent of motorbike fatalities are not the fault of the biker.
On the altar Fr John Kearns is preparing for the mass which will incorporate a sermon from a Church of Ireland minister. One of the founders of the event, Kearns estimates he is one of seven “biker priests” in the country. He became interested in the sport through his father, now 87, who sits in a pew close to the altar. Kearns was a truck driver, an Aer Lingus worker and a Garda before joining the priesthood.
“Some of my friends never understood me joining. I was doing missionary work in Zimbabwe at one point and they sent me out my bike because they didn’t want to think of me without it,” he says.
He says those who ride bikes are “vulnerable” and he understands why people worry about their loved ones. “It’s always a worry for the family, watching them go out and hoping they come back safe.
“We are trying to encourage people to slow down. My first bike was a wee pedal yoke. You were halfway into town before you got started,” he says. “Now, young fellas get their first bike and it’s a 600cc engine. Anyone can get their bike up to 60mph but it takes a bit of experience to bring it back down to zero.”
The mass, he says, gives solace to families who have lost someone on the road. “It’s about showing the families that their loved one is not forgotten, even though they are gone. They come here and find other people who know exactly what they are going through. They find a sort of peace.”
Kearns, who is a member of the Border Lords club, says he will always ride a bike. “It’s in the blood, in the system. I find a great peace and calm, believe it or not, when I am out alone on the bike. I can leave parish duties behind.”
Co Fermanagh man Willie Parker has been coming to the event for years. “I always thought it was important to lend solidarity to grieving families, to show that we knew what they were going through.
“Actually, we didn’t know then exactly, but we do now,” he says.
Parker’s son Ryan died in October 2009 when he lost control of his bike and hit a telegraph pole. He was 20.
Last year was the first time Parker attended the service as a bereaved person. Ryan had attended the masses with his father before his death.
“We felt as if he was there. We built Ryan’s bike back up, a black Suzuki Bandit, and it was on the altar. My other son, Joe, brought up the candle with his name on it. I wouldn’t have been able to do it.”
Local man Colin Tate is relaxing with friends on a grass verge outside the church. They all know people who have died in recent years so have come to show support to families of the bereaved.
“It’s addictive, like smoking a fag,” says Tate of the biking life. “It’s the adrenalin, you are away out, getting to new places, meeting new people all the time. Some people have football or golf; this is our hobby. I don’t ignore the dangers but I still have to live my life.”
Christopher Devaney from Co Mayo is wearing vintage blue leathers and getting ready to polish his brother Martin’s bike, which has been placed on the altar for the service.
“He died last January,” he says in a quiet voice. “This is very poignant for all of us. He was a very quiet guy but he loved bikes.” Christopher’s father and his brother’s girlfriend, along with several family friends, are also attending. Did his younger brother’s death change the way he feels about bikes? “No. I think Martin would be annoyed if we stopped riding bikes . . . I think he’d be delighted that we were here representing him and that the bike is up on the altar. It’s not as though we are in this for the thrill seeking. There are a lot of dangerous things out there but you still have to live your life.”
DURING THE SERVICE,the names of the dead are read out and relatives or friends walk up the aisle towards Kearns, carrying a lit candle bearing the name of their loved one. One woman, holding the hand of a young girl, bursts into tears as she approaches the priest. The girl turns and gives her a hug.
Willie Parker says he found it difficult to watch road races on the television after his son died. Now he is trying to raise money to buy a plot of land for a stunt circuit – a facility, he says, that would save lives.
“There are people doing dangerous stunts on the road where Ryan had his accident. This would be a track in Ryan’s memory, a place where people could go and do stunts in a safe, supervised environment. It was something he always wanted to create when he was alive, so I hope we can do it now he is gone,” he says.
For more, see gonebutnotforgottenbikers.net
* See more of Alan Betson’s photographs of the bikers’ memorial mass in an online slideshow at irishtimes.com
