KULPMONT - It was the late Robert J. Mattis' wish that his buddies take him on one last motorcycle ride, and on Friday, his request was obliged.
Mattis died June 9 after a bout with cancer and was cremated. The Marine Corps veteran, who retired from the state Department of Corrections after a 26-year career, was an avid outdoorsman who loved riding Harley-Davidson motorcycles, so much so that he founded the Coal Township chapter of the Pride Motorcycle Club.
"Viper" was bade farewell Friday at the Veterans of Foreign Wars post on Chestnut Street, where some 40 people gathered inside and outside to see him off to Indiantown Gap National Cemetery, Annville, where a graveside service was held.
His remains were placed inside a saddlebag strapped to a Harley-Davidson Dyna Wide Glide he once owned, a bike he sold to a friend after he could no longer ride it.
A six-pack of his favorite beer, Budweiser, was loaded into the other saddlebag.
"You realize he's gonna get you for putting the beer on the other side," Mattis' close friend, Dave Rudon, told Derek Nejedly with a chuckle.
Nejedly paused from strapping the bag shut. "Should we put one in with him?" He asked the crowd gathered in the post's parking lot.
The answer was a resounding "Yes!"
As a single can was fitted inside next to Mattis' remains, Rudon said, "Now he's smiling."
Funny, goofy
"Viper" was regarded fondly among his friends and coworkers. That much was easily evidenced in the faces of those who showed for the send-off - some saddened, fighting back tears, others stoic and solemn.
More than a few allowed themselves to laugh during a photo tribute to Mattis shown on a television inside the VFW bar: A series of pictures of him sitting on motorcycles and posing with friends flashed on screen as songs by ZZ Top, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Tom Petty were played.
Nejedly described Mattis as funny and goofy, a prankster and a good supervisor. Rudon, too, noted his humor.
"He has one of the most wicked senses of humor you can imagine," said Rudon, who worked with Mattis and knew him for 25 years.
Rudon spoke of trips to motorcycle rallies in Sturgis, S.D., and Laconia, N.H.
He told of a time Mattis had Rudon carried out of a cabin because of his snoring; Rudon woke up later on the lawn.
He laughed when recalling how a well-endowed woman had distracted a rider, causing him to crash into a bike Mattis had just spent $6,000 fixing up. Mattis' solution was to put a big bandage on the wreckage, on which the word "Ouch" was scrawled.
They rode often together, through sun and snow and rain.
"We rode hard. We rode through tornadoes," Rudon recalled, adding that his bike's windshield was ripped off. "We found it a half mile back. ... He's the one who found it."
'Wonderful family'
Looking around the bar and its guests, many wearing their leather or denim riding vests with Pride club patches worn atop collared shirts, Rudon said, "Bob never knew how many people he touched."
The Pride Motorcycle Club, which began in Dallas, Pa., now spans seven states. It's made up of DOC employees and was originally organized to raise funds for coworkers in need. Mattis organized the local chapter.
Joe Redd, a fellow DOC employee, knew Mattis for 15 years. He was given the honor of riding his late friend's motorcycle to Indiantown Gap.
"He was so smart, so funny and so caring. ... You don't get many like that. You just don't," Redd said, excusing himself as he wiped away a tear from each of his eyes.
Shortly before the ride to Indiantown Gap started, Nejedly said, "Well, I think it's about time to put Bob on his bike."
He quieted the crowd in the bar before inviting them outside.
That's where Mattis' sister, Rita "Marcella" Ginitz, of Shamokin, spoke about her brother and paid respects to his friends.
"I did not realize he had such a beautiful, wonderful family," she told the crowd. "That's what you meant to him."
Shortly afterward the bikers got onto their motorcycles, others stepped into cars, and the procession headed toward Route 61 to begin a slow ride to the cemetery 40-odd miles south.
Several minutes earlier, as the photo tribute drew to an end, flashed on the screen were the words: "We'll miss you Viper, though you'll always be with us. Adios amigo, happy trails."
Silence spread quickly as the music stopped. It seemed no one knew how to react. After a few moments, the call was made for drinks to be raised.
"To Bob, everybody," someone exclaimed.
The response came fast, "To Bob."