On Sonny Drake’s first day dead, the power of his words banged around in my head like outlaw biker ghosts brawling inside the gas tank of his vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle.
“Live Pagan, die Pagan,” he said matter-of-factly in our last conversation.
The day after Sonny’s death, a month short of his 72nd birthday, I watched still-robust green leaves in a vibrant neighborhood tree begin to turn fiery red as each leaf prepared to fall. All life goes down sooner or later. Sonny called his body a vessel, a repository that holds blood, bone, tissue and organs that one day drops like a well-used scooter in a fatal crash on an oily stretch of dark and dangerous road.
But the righteous spirit of his hallowed Pagan’s Motorcycle Club lives forever, Sonny said.
At my friend’s funeral at Indiantown Gap National Cemetery, about 75 Pagans rode their shining heavy metal beasts through the sacred green land of the dead, passing headstones commemorating military warriors past, parking in a long line that embodied the menacing muscle of a fire-breathing dragon.
Beneath wooden beams of an open air pavilion, two uniformed Marines gently folded Old Glory and presented America’s symbol of freedom to Sonny’s widow, Margie. Christian prayers ended as the nice pastor with whom Sonny and I went to high school and played football presented his practiced, pious smile and disappeared back into the solemn, silent crowd.
Life had officially ended for the former Pagan’s Central Pennsylvania chapter president.
But the club had the last word.
Stepping unexpectedly to the front of the crowd where the pastor earlier stood, a blunt East Coast Pagan’s chapter president and military veteran commanded center stage for an encore. Evoking Sonny’s bold spirit in a piercing growl, he made clear his personal devotion to his deceased brother’s final destination.
“Valhalla!” he blasted in a deep voice, referencing the hallowed Norse afterlife reserved for Viking chieftains.
Assembled club members bellowed in response.
“Valhalla!”
Again the president howled his message.
“Valhalla!”
The outlaw multitude rumbled louder.
“Valhalla!”
Riding words hard and fast to honor the glory of their horde’s living and dead, the president thundered, “Pagan’s Nation!”
Fired up club members screamed their oath to the heavens.
“Pagan’s Nation!”
“Valhalla!” shouted the Pagan’s chapter president one last time, raising a clenched fist to the sky.
“Valhalla!” came the club’s uncompromising grand finale.
Still cemetery air trembled. Moving en masse and climbing on their bikes, the red, white and blue colors they wore on their backs shined with fire god Surt etched in black in the middle of their cutoff denim vests. Kicking over well-oiled engines they roared away from the boxed white ash remains of a good man who loved his country, family, friends and club.
In life Sonny stood tall and lean, muscled with a shaved head and ominous black-inked tattoos on both arms depicting wailing skulls and the Grim Reaper beckoning from a bourbon bottle-sized gray brand cut into his upper arm.
Yes, Sonny Drake lived and died a Pagan – a Pagan forever, forever a Pagan.
Non-club members and citizens like most of us rarely get a look inside the mind of a patched Pagan and former chapter president. I did because Sonny Drake and I grew up together in rural Central Pennsylvania. We respected each other until the end. As his life shut down, I offered to write a chapter of his life as part of a club history that John Hall, another friend of mine for more than 50 years, is putting together with personal stories from memorable Pagan’s members like Sonny Drake. Hall, 75, an elder non-active Pagan and former New York chapter president, is the author of Riding on the Edge: A Motorcycle Outlaw’s Tale.
Despite sneaky undercover cops and deadly rivals, this hardcore brotherhood stands proud and unbowed among East Coast one-percenters. Pagan membership rosters swell with prospects flexing hard young muscle beside seasoned brothers who more than ever roll across America in what Pagan leadership considers their expanding nation.
Following a second near-fatal motorcycle accident, Al “Sonny” Drake Jr. moved in 2021 to Citrus County, Florida, with Margie and two Doberman defenders that roared at me in the background when he and I talked for hours on the phone about his relationship with the Pagan’s Motorcycle Club. Sonny didn’t give away any secrets or talk club business. He channeled raw spirit that drove him deep into the soul of loyalty he feels about his brothers.
“You’re the only person that I have spoken with about my experiences,” he said.
We also talked frankly about how Sonny confronted, faced and accepted death with gallant courage. Despite increasing morphine doses, he spoke clearly and realistically, expressing curiosity in the face of pain.
“It’s a process what I’m going through,” he said. “Not good. Not bad. It is what it is.”
Sonny embraced death as a stand-up role model, an icon among club members, their families and friends, particularly younger guys who looked up to him. Without many like him left, younger Pagan’s should take heed and learn how to ride reality from one of the best.
Before moving south he led the club’s Appalachian chapter near Duncannon, PA, a rough-and-ready assemblage of Perry County country boys who understand the land and how to nurture the rough terrain, hard rocks and all. A former Marine, American legion commander and federal naval supply depot security officer for decades, Sonny knew the rules of the road.
OK, so hard road almost ate him up a couple of times – actually a jittery white-tail deer who hit his bike with the force of a steroid-ridden semi-pro linebacker and an oblivious jackass in a pickup truck who pulled out in front of him. Bones that didn’t break the first time broke the second. Sonny healed both times. When he went down he got up. After chewing gravel he spit it out. A few years later he took another spill and asked for an extra helping of asphalt for dessert.
To Sonny Drake the trappings of existence boiled down to the initials LPDP – “Live Pagan Die Pagan.” The letters PFFP also meant something sacred. “Pagan Forever Forever Pagan” defined his club commitment. Sonny made his allegiance clear when he signed off in a final email to me he ended with those abbreviations.
Sonny Drake’s words to live by still pound in my head. You, too, should crave holy primitive enlightenment from the now-stilled heart of a Pagan prince who sensed ancient warlord blood in his ancestry and did something about it. His daring created a force that remains a two-fisted cosmic spirit that guides hardcore searchers to explore the unknown.
So how’d Sonny Drake handle the 1% outlaw lifestyle?
“We all push our limits,” Sonny told me. “You’ve got to know who you are. You’ve got to know your place. Most people don’t know who they are. Too many people don’t know their place.”
Do you know your limits?
“Me? I’m good.”
How do you use that knowledge?
“I’m always casting pearls. I’m talking about lessons. Sometimes I kick myself in the ass wondering if I’m wasting my breath. Some people aren’t ready to understand. You only learn if you want to learn. That’s why I ride with the best. Always the A team, only the best.”
Did you jump at the chance to become a Pagan?
“I drug my feet about joining the club. A couple of 30-year guys would always say, hey, Sonny, when are you gonna put Sutar (that’s how the club spells the name) on your back? The Norse fire giant wielding his flaming sword is the club symbol – a god, a demon, a ruthless force to lead armies into battle. My family surname means dragon. I’m descended from Vikings so it looks like joining this fire-breathing club was meant to be. But I’d tell them, I’m not ready. I said I don’t think I’m the man you’re looking for. They got real serious and said you’re exactly the man we’re looking for. They knew what they wanted.”
Did you know what the Pagan’s wanted?
“When I was ready I knew they were right because I knew who I was. All honorable men belong to the same tribe. You’ve got to know who you are.
How did you handle your new outlaw life?
“Changing old ways is important. Everything changes. Nothing’s permanent. Not behaving badly makes a stronger nation. It’s great to be a Jesse James, right? Knuckle-dragging, chain-wielding, ax handle-swinging barbarians, right? We’re one-percenters. Nobody else in the biker world matters to us. But I won’t cross the line. I know what to do and what not to do. Knowing who you are is where club power is born. Look in the mirror. Tell me what you see. Tell me who you see.”
What did the Pagan’s see in you?
“The club saw discipline in me. Six years in the Marines, a top secret clearance in my job. The club respected what I would do to help. I respected the club. Look at me – Mr. Clean Boy Scout turned into a diamond, a chapter president. I added raw meat to the bone. A number of brothers influenced me to join. Like-minded brothers share the same patches, our military backgrounds, loyalty and respect. One in particular, I owe it all to him. He knows who he is.”
Do risks come to a Pagan?
“In the club life we wear bullseyes on our backs. Survival comes down to strength and loyalty. Living’s like riding a wild spirit that’s hard to control, hard to tame. Either you find the balance or you don’t. We find honor and trust in the brotherhood. We’re getting bigger and stronger every day.”
You sure love your bikes, right?
“Bikes come and go, though. I’ve owned 16 Harleys over the years. My first bike was a ’67 XLCH Sportster I bought in 1970. I still have a 1947 Knucklehead (half ’47 Knucklehead/half ’48 Panhead) that’s a showpiece bike – one pure, sacred motorcycle. I totaled a Fat Boy when that deer ran out in front of me. I totaled a Softail when that pickup truck pulled out in front of me. For all my broken bones are worth, and I got a lot of them, I was sober both times.”
In our last two telephone conversations, Sonny talked about preparing for the last ride.
“I’m always searching,” he said. “Where did we come from? Where are we going?”
As life closed in, Sonny said he learned more about himself with each breath on each day. Continuing the quest for wisdom even when pancreatic cancer chewed up his body, Sonny knew the power of the fate he faced. He saw his passing as a trial by fire, an inferno that moved him deeper into a connection between the sweet mysteries of life and death’s mighty flames lifting him to Valhalla.
Telling me he hoped he didn’t sound corny, he said he told Margie, “I’m moving on. This vessel, this body, I’m in my cocoon, all curled up. I’ll emerge on the other side as a beautiful butterfly.”
Then Sonny laughed like he did when we boxed by the coal ash pit as teenagers and I caught him with a teeth-jarring shot in the mouth.
“Or a beautiful Harley,” he said.
A few days after Sonny’s funeral, I heard the boys threw him a party at their farm. Rain, gray skies and thick mud couldn’t dampen their mood or tone down the Pagan’s Nation message. Sonny’s final testimonial read aloud to a silent crowd encouraged guts and growth among the tribe.
“Explosions come out of nowhere,” he said. “You better be ready to expect the unexpected. Loud and proud, I’ve lived my life to the fullest. We live in our own minds so you better get it right. To get something out you better put something in.”
Our beautiful outlaw put something in all right – something righteous and then some.
Even in death, when Sonny Drake spoke, the Pagan’s listened.
