By 8:00 in the morning, several more had joined them, lining up neatly along the road outside St. Andrew's Church in a growing formation that caused passing drivers to slow down and stare in confusion.
Local residents whispered to each other on sidewalks, wondering why so many bikers were gathering outside a church on a weekday morning.
The church caretaker stepped outside to investigate, only to be greeted politely by a group of leather-vested riders who simply said they were there for a funeral.
What no one realized yet, not the curious townspeople, not the caretaker, and certainly not Margaret Doyle, was that this quiet arrival was only the beginning.
The distant rumble of more motorcycles could already be heard rolling in from the highway.
And the number of riders heading toward Redwood Falls was still growing with every passing mile.
By the time Margaret Doyle's taxi slowly turned onto the narrow road leading to St. Andrew's Church the next morning, the quiet town of Redwood Falls was already witnessing something it had never seen before.
The soft countryside silence had been replaced by the distant, steady rumble of motorcycle engines echoing through the streets as more and more riders rolled in from the highway, their chrome reflecting the pale morning sun while rows of bikes lined both sides of the road leading up to the small brick church.
At first, Margaret didn't notice anything unusual as the taxi moved slowly through town, because she was staring down at the folded funeral program in her hands, nervously reading Walter's name printed at the top as if she needed to remind herself the moment was real.
But when the driver finally slowed near the church entrance, he suddenly leaned forward over the steering wheel and squinted through the windshield in confusion.
“Ma'am, I'm not sure what's going on here,” he said carefully.
Margaret looked up, expecting perhaps a small crowd of curious townspeople.
But instead she froze as her eyes widened in disbelief.
The street in front of the church was filled with motorcycles, dozens of them, parked in long lines stretching far beyond the church gate and continuing down the road like a river of black leather and polished steel.
Riders stood beside their bikes in quiet groups, their leather vests moving slightly in the morning breeze.
For a moment, Margaret wondered if some kind of rally had been scheduled nearby, because the sight was so unexpected it barely made sense.
But then the taxi rolled closer and she noticed something else.
Every rider standing outside the church was facing the same direction — the church entrance.