RIP: Rick Bales

Rick was one of the last good reasons I had to drag myself to car shows. Just the thought of something like the Roadster Show can twist my nerves into knots—social, mental, and every other flavor of anxiety you can imagine. But then I’d think of Rick. Guys like him gave me the courage to get off my ass and face the chaos. The thought of missing those quick, quiet 15-minute conversations with him was enough to pull me out of my self-imposed exile. I’d force myself to go just for that.

 I have a good Rick story… Years back, I damn near burned my shop to the ground. Long story short, but I was left with a soot-covered disaster zone. The black grime was everywhere. And of course, this all went down the week before the Round Up. By Wednesday, I’d had enough wallowing and opened up the shop doors, determined to dig out of the mess.

I got to work—hauling everything out, blasting the soot with compressed air, mopping like a madman. I was knee-deep in it when Rick pulled up in his roadster, cool as ever. He was in town for the show and thought he’d drop by to see me. Now, Rick wasn’t in the best shape—it wasn’t long after his heart transplant—so I wouldn’t let him lift a finger to help. He didn’t push it, either. He just grabbed a stool, sat down, and spent the entire day keeping me company in the middle of my misery.

That’s who Rick was. He never annoyed. He never overstepped. He was a perfect gentleman in a world that doesn’t make them like that anymore. Just his presence was enough to make the soot and the chaos feel a little less heavy.

I’m going to miss that man. Truly. He wasn’t just a friend; he was a reminder that decency and grace still exist in this world. I loved him, and I’ll carry that with me every time I hear the rumble of a roadster.