Hutch 1951-2009

Finally. After years of patience. A private contractor hired by the City of Greeley is building curb and gutter in front of our business. Friday Letter #93.

Playing in the dirt

Looking out the front window of our business, I keep thinking I see our friend Hutch.

After all, there’s a big wild-looking hooligan with his hat on backwards, sitting up high on the operator’s seat of a yellow backhoe.

It’s happened to me several times already his week. I look up from my work table and outside on the street I think I see Hutch.

Then it hits me all over again. I can’t be seeing my friend Hutch. Laura and I went to Cheyenne to his funeral just Tuesday.

My friend, hell. Hutch wasn’t just my friend. He was a friend to the whole world. A true friend to his fellow man, to his wife and family, to his buddies from work, to the gnarly clubber at the Sturgis rally, to the newby HOG member.

William B. “Hutch” Hutchins was the most guileless person I’ve ever met. He lived life with a quiet, calm unswerving tenacity the likes of which I haven’t seen anywhere else.

He reminded me a lot of the main character in Owen Wister’s book, “The Virginian,” soft spoken, mannerly with the ladies, forceful and firm with men.

His impact on humanity was immense – he made a positive, loving, faithful impact on so many of us. It’s impossible to calculate how many of us he “sponsored,” supported, cajoled, or simply included.

The Riverton Wyoming Police Department played a huge role in the life of young Mr. Hutchins.

On its way to an incident entirely unrelated to Hutch, a police squad car ran over Hutch’s Harley – and Hutch.

For a time, Hutch was dead. But a doctor and his attendants pieced him back together and brought him back to life.

That “return from death” experience was soon followed by the experience of hepatitis from a transfusion with tainted blood. These circumstances changed Hutch – for the better, somehow.

Hutch endured many years of intense pain while doctors tried to cure him of the blood disease. If I pressed him, he would hesitantly admit he was hurting.

I saw the effects of other injuries – the lift in one boot, for example. I’d see him wince, during dinner or a conversation. However, never did I hear him whine and I don’t think anyone else did either.

He had other hurts as well. In 1994, Hutch and Molly’s son Billy, aged 16, died in a hunting incident. The pain of that defies description. Hutch, true to character, was stoic.

Then several years ago, a lot of the pain was over. Hutch was declared cancer-free. “Let’s party,” he said, predictably, when that verdict came.

But “party” meant something different to Hutch than it might mean to others of us. It meant “have fun,” whether it was at work or at play. “Having fun” to Hutch was riding a Harley or going to the Sturgis Rally.

“Having fun” meant Hutch could be in the middle of any heavy-duty biker gathering and remain happy as a clam, without even drinking a single beer. Maybe an O’Doul’s. But Hutch didn’t drink during the time I knew him. He couldn’t drink. But that didn’t limit the party.

Heavy chemo must be hard on the heart. It was a heart attack that took Hutch from us in Glendo on April 2. He was at work. He was working to finish up a couple of jobs he had promised, then his plan was to face back surgery.

Hutch is buried near his son in the cemetery at “Hanoi,” Hutch’s half-kidding nickname for Hanna.

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There’s something endearingly special about people who truly lead the biker lifestyle. There’s something very special and admirable about Wyoming people who lead the biker lifestyle.

They all look so windblown. They all are so windblown. Weathered. Whether they’ve been riding or not. If you are a true Wyoming biker, you are a truly tough individual. Grizzled. Wrinkled. Frizzy-haired, worn.

Hutch was a Wyoming biker from an early age. He might easily have become a cowboy, but motorcycles came ahead of horses in his list of priorities.

While the family was still at home in the tiny hamlet of Pavillion northwest of Riverton, he bought his first Harley. (Sorry, Honda riders, but included in the definition of the term “biker” is also the term “Harley.” This is the way it is. Get over it.)

Being a biker or even a Wyoming biker doesn’t mean you have to be a bad guy, a criminal, a drunk or a druggie. Hutch amply proved that.

Hutch was the only one of his six brothers who continued “playing in the dirt” after becoming a man. His entire working life was spent in the excavation business. Even that was to him, “having fun.”

He certainly knew how to be a good brother. He was a special brother to Laura, who has a special need for a big brother.

The vest

Hutch and Molly, who were only newlyweds when we met them in 1988, were among the many biker friends we had who were supportive of our fledgling leather garment business.

Early on, Hutch brought us “the vest.” This was the denim garment that was pivotal in legal machinations necessary to show that Riverton police had a responsibility with regards to Hutch’s recovery and medical costs. (The police at first denied Hutch had been hit by a squad car.)

Legend has it that “someone” sneaked into an impound lot and retrieved the vest. It had been torn from the young man’s body – and was stuck under the damaged police car. Pretty good proof of culpability.

After the legal maneuvering, Hutch got the vest back and began having embroidered patches sewn on it. Among those patches was one purloined from the Riverton Police, sewn on upside-down in time-honored biker style.

By the time it came to us, the vest had become kind of tattered. Just a little worse for wear. Laura and I put a leather collar and trim on it, and repaired it where possible.

Although he didn’t have specific issues with other police departments, Hutch collected many patches and sewed them on upside-down. He had developed a full-blown attitude about authority, and he wasn’t afraid to show it. I admire that in a man.

One patch that didn’t go on upside-down was a white one with red border and red letters that read “In Memory of Linda.” Hutch and Molly deeply grieved the loss of Linda Holt (murdered in 1987) and endeavored to be of comfort to her grieving husband, Mike.

All too soon, a new patch was added; “In Memory of My Son Billy.” How hard can life really be? The Hutchins family knows.

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Word of the week: Advocate. From Latin, “advocatus,” a counselor. It means a person who pleads another’s cause, as in a witness or a mentor. I picked the “word” last week before Hutch died. “Advocate” sure defines Hutch, doesn’t it? From John 16:7 “But I tell you the truth, it is better for you that I go. For if I do not go, the Advocate will not come to you. But if I go, I will send him to you.”

Next week’s word: Masochism.

Gripes? Complaints? Whines? Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Reciprocal rant? Feel free to express yourself in the comments below.