Grinned when I saw the aging biker gang's name as 'Sons of Arthritis' in 'Chuck Murphy's Last Run' by Kevin Barry, published in The New Yorker on October 11, 2026.
Six aging Irish bikers (66-74 years old) rode their Harleys toward the beach at Strandhill on the coast of Sligo to fulfil a friend's final wishes. They're riding out to scatter the ashes of their late compatriot, Chuck 'Boyo' Murphy. They used to be seven in a group — Rog Dockery, Tall Paul, Ned the Impaler, Barney, Tony M, the narrator Stephen, and the recently-deceased Chuck. It wouldn't be too long a trip since it's a small island and the coastline isn't that... ... long. It would be an easy three to four-hour ride.
I really couldn't stop laughing at their tees. Well, it isn't unique in the sense that printing companies offer those slogans and you could customize it to your own tee designs and such. This group's tees read, 'Sons of Arthritis / Ibuprofen Chapter'. Their outings are now infrequent, and they don't quite muck around like they used to decades ago. The narrator thought that everyone was more gentle with one another now.
Yes, wry old men on hogs were we, with scarred hearts and woejus hips, but we had never lost our sense of fun or of peacockery.
The bikers remembered Chuck at every passing mile and landmark. Along the way, they bantered, they deal with the physical aches, got a bun and coffee break, had a brief, slightly absurd run-in with local surfers at the beach. Then they got to the beach at Strandhill and did what they set out to do. They felt the loss keenly, in their own different ways.
The author said that his story is "primarily concerned with fraternity, in the original sense of brotherhood, and how important it can be in getting men through the hard times." He said that men should talk more about fraternity. In that sense, yes. Men are always portrayed as the one stoic gender not giving to tears and overt displays of emotion.
Regardless of gender, friendship is indeed important in helping us navigate the vicissitudes of life.
We turned our snouts seaward, saw the long, billowing green ribs of the Atlantic from a rise above Collooney, and I could feel the hot gushes of emotion surging through the pack. Tall Paul, I knew for sure, had a touchy-feely side to him and he was inclined, certainly when deep in his cups, to lean in bravely and start talking about meaning and purpose in life and stoutheartedness, and how important it was that we maintain the sense of community we had built together over the slow, painful decades, and how important it was that we all loved one another, at which point I would tend to retreat back into my beard and blush ferociously.
Of course, he was not wrong about the pain—as a group we had been through the usual vile plethora of sicknesses and losses, broken hearts and occasional incarcerations, addictions coming out the wazoo, screaming, locked-ward breakdowns, you name it. We had really been through a great deal but still we rode on, with our engines growling at the sodden farmland and the exurban sprawl.
They had booked rooms for the night at a hostel with bunk beds, like old times. Before bedtime, they adjourned for supper at the bustling dining scene in the area. They mentioned about the excellent small plates scene in Strandhill, said that they hit three gastropubs, and put away loads of small plates by the dozens.
Fuelled by good vibes and all, the narrator casually suggested a mid-winter / mid-January run to Spain for its food and sights. But nobody indicated a real commitment to do so. Later in the night, when Tony M (he's 74 years old and rides a ’87 stone-gray Harley Electra Glide) casually brought up selling his motorcycle, the rest instinctively shut the idea down.
The others poked politely enough at the idea but I noted that they would make no commitments to it. Silently I scolded myself—I’d forgotten that even raising the possibility of a major run these days can send most of the boys to their morose places, can remind them of all that might get in the way of such an outing. It’s become much harder to make any mid- to long-range plans, what with the many appointments that choke a more senior man’s schedule, the physical and mental therapies, the endless scans and random probes, not to mention the late-onset agoraphobia that is not unknown to gentlemen of a certain age who’ve travelled more than their fair stretch of rough road. And of course developing a fear of the outdoors is never ideal in the hog-riding-outlaw kind.
I have so much to say about making long-term commitments. It's a hard thing to do nowadays, and harder as we get older. Responsibilities and obligations get in the way, then fear. Even I. The husband and I don't want to travel together anymore because the dog would be left alone. Flight delays notwithstanding, we fear accidents and making it home to the dog. I hesitate to take trips on my own even though I could. This story hit me deep in so many ways.
Now that the gang is together, they enjoy one another's company. However, we don't know if this is one of the very last hangouts. Imagine doing this rides each time one of them dies. That's reality and it's depressing. What the narrator Stephen said, really really hits home. At the end of it all, we will be affected by loneliness.
I had dreamed all night of riding alone through strange country and unknown places, had dreamed of nameless valleys and broad mysterious fields, of sombre mountain roads, all of it sweeping past me in a blur, as this life sweeps past, and streaks of pale gold reached out across the ripening fields. These dreams, I felt, had the certain weight of a foretelling—they told me of the lonelier roads to come.
In happier thoughts to end this little story, we talk about food. I almost wished that the story talked a little more about food. In an interview with Cressida Leyshon at the journal, it's too cute that the author is asked about the food in Ireland. Well, the small plates scene in Strandhill is truly a big deal. Say, Stoked, The Dunes and Honestly. It's gaining traction for its flavors and focus on healthy portions.
Chuck’s ashes are not so much scattered as taken by the wind. Afterward, the men make the most of Strandhill’s small-plates scene. Did you want to subvert expectations by way of the food they eat? Or is it a given that, in the Ireland of 2026, small plates are going to be in the picture?
Given that we’re a people traditionally reared on buckets of potatoes and lumps of boiled ham the size of your father’s head, the transition to a most delicate and refined small-plates scene has really been something to see. There’s been an incredible improvement in the Irish seaside-dining experience over the last twenty years or so, and the best of it now is as innovative and edgy as you’ll get in Denmark, and priced accordingly. You honestly can’t throw a Frisbee on an Irish beach these days without it passing over at least a couple of small-plates joints.
