People usually go out in a wooden box. Some choose an urn. But Billy Standley? He wanted to ride into the afterlife on two wheels. You’ve probably seen the photo. It’s a grainy, surreal image of a man in a leather jacket, sunglasses on, gripping the handlebars of a 1967 Electra Glide. He isn't sitting in a museum; he's inside a massive plexiglass casket being lowered into the dirt by a crane.
It looks like a movie prop. Or maybe a weird internet hoax from the early days of social media. But it’s entirely real. When the news broke back in 2014 that a man was being buried on a motorcycle in Mechanicsburg, Ohio, the world stopped to look.
Why do this? It wasn't about being "extra" or trying to go viral before that was even a thing. For Billy, it was a promise. He spent years telling his family he didn't just want to be remembered as a biker—he wanted to be one forever.
The Logistics of a Transparent Funeral
You can't just drop a motorcycle into a hole and call it a day. The state of Ohio has rules. Environmental agencies have rules. Honestly, the sheer amount of paperwork involved in burying a motorized vehicle is enough to make most people give up and choose a standard pine casket.
Billy’s sons, Pete and Roy, spent years helping their father prep for this. This wasn't a snap decision made by grieving relatives; it was a decades-long project. They had to build the casket themselves. Standard caskets are meant to hold a lying body, not a 700-pound machine and a man sitting upright. They used plexiglass and wood, reinforcing the bottom with steel so the bike wouldn't just crash through the floor the moment the crane lifted it.
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The bike itself—that 1967 Harley-Davidson—was his pride and joy. It’s a classic shovelhead. If you know anything about Harleys, you know that 1967 was a transitional year, the early days of the electric start. It was a bike that required constant turning of wrenches. Billy didn't just ride it; he lived on it. He reportedly visited all 48 contiguous states on that machine. To him, the bike wasn't a hunk of metal. It was his companion.
Five Embalmers and a Vision
How do you keep a body upright and looking natural on a motorcycle for a public viewing? That was the challenge facing the Skillman, McDonald & Vernon Funeral Home. It took five embalmers to pull this off.
They didn't just put him in a suit. Billy wore his worn leathers. They used a series of metal braces and straps to ensure he wouldn't slump over. If you've ever seen the photos from the funeral, the most striking thing isn't the bike—it's his posture. He looks like he’s cruising at 60 mph. He looks like he’s just waiting for the light to turn green.
The family even bought extra burial plots. A standard grave is about 3 feet by 8 feet. That doesn't work when you’re burying a man in a box the size of a small shed. They had to purchase five adjoining plots at the Fairview Cemetery to accommodate the massive enclosure.
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Why the World Obsessed Over This
We’re fascinated by the "outlier" funeral. In a world where death is often sterilized and hidden behind velvet curtains and soft organ music, Billy Standley’s exit was loud. It was a middle finger to the idea that you have to become a stranger once your heart stops beating.
There’s a term for this: extreme posing or "post-mortem posing." We’ve seen it in Puerto Rico, where families have had loved ones posed at poker tables or standing in the corner of a living room during the wake. But the guy buried on a motorcycle hit a different nerve in the American psyche. It tapped into that specific brand of rugged individualism.
"He was a quirky man," his son Pete told local reporters at the time. That feels like an understatement. But there’s something deeply human about wanting your final act to be an authentic reflection of your best days. Billy didn't want people crying over a closed lid. He wanted them to see him exactly how he spent his life: on the road.
The Reality of "Motorcycle Burials"
Don't think this is a trend you can easily join. Most cemeteries will flat-out refuse this. The environmental concerns regarding lead-acid batteries, gasoline, and motor oil are significant. To get Billy into the ground, the bike had to be drained of all fluids. It was essentially stripped of its "life blood" to ensure it wouldn't contaminate the water table.
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Also, the cost. Between the extra plots, the custom-built plexiglass vault, the crane rental, and the specialized embalming, this was an expensive way to go. Most people who say they want to be buried with their car or bike eventually realize the red tape is a nightmare. Billy succeeded because he started planning it twenty years before he died. He literally kept the plexiglass casket in his garage for years, showing it off to neighbors. Talk about commitment to a bit.
What This Tells Us About Modern Grief
Actually, it’s not just about the bike. It’s about the shift in how we handle the end of life. We are moving away from "one size fits all" funerals. Whether it’s turning ashes into diamonds or being buried in a mushroom suit that eats your body, people want agency.
Billy Standley took his agency to the extreme. He didn't let the funeral industry dictate his final image. He dictated it to them.
When the crane finally lowered that box into the Ohio soil, it wasn't just a burial. It was a parade. Dozens of bikers followed the hearse—well, the flatbed truck—to the cemetery. The roar of engines was the only choir he needed.
If you’re considering a non-traditional burial:
- Check local zoning laws early. Most municipal cemeteries have strict "outer container" requirements that might forbid plexiglass.
- Talk to a funeral director who specializes in "personalization." Not every mortician has the skill (or the stomach) for complex posing.
- Environmental prep is non-negotiable. If you want to include a vehicle, it must be environmentally inert. No fuel, no oil, no coolants.
- Budget for the "footprint." You will almost certainly need to buy multiple plots, which can triple your burial costs instantly.
The story of the guy buried on a motorcycle serves as a reminder that the only person who truly owns your legacy is you. Billy Standley rode his 1967 Electra Glide right into the history books, not because he was famous, but because he refused to be ordinary, even in death. It’s a wild, slightly bizarre, and strangely beautiful testament to living a life that matches your exit strategy.