Pat Mitchell: Community Champion
Patrick “Pat” Mitchell (1962–2023) was a beloved figure in Indiana’s motorcycle community, known for his passion for bikes, invention, and his drive to bring people together. A lifelong Grant County resident, Pat was as much an entrepreneur as he was a biker. In 2003, he founded Ride & Leather, a custom motorcycle seat and leather shop originally based in Jonesboro (City of Marion). Through this venture, he crafted handmade seats and accessories for fellow riders, quickly earning respect in the biker community. Pat’s business later moved to downtown Marion in 2020, a decision he made as a nod to the region’s rich motorcycling history (City of Marion). Friends and family remember him as a “family man to the core” and a natural leader who treated the biking community like an extended family. His enthusiasm and genuine love for motorcycles and mechanics helped lay the groundwork for an event that would put his small Indiana town on the international tourism map.
The Life and Legacy of Pat Mitchell
A light drizzle dampened the pavement of Main Street Thursday morning, but it did nothing to quell the rumble of motorcycles gathered in Jonesboro, Indiana Thursday night. It was early evening on the last Thursday of September, and the small town’s population and more showed up. The smell of barbecue smoke from a free community cookout hung in the air. Hundreds of riders sat astride gleaming chrome, engines idling in unison like a great metallic heartbeat. They had come for the Pat Mitchell Memorial Ride, the inaugural tribute to the man who had brought them together year after year. At the front of the pack, Carmen Mitchell, Pat’s widow and lifelong partner in his adventures, surveyed the sea of bikers. It was ostensibly the kickoff to the 20th annual Jonesboro River Rally.
As the clock neared 7pm, faces illuminated by the glow of motorcycle headlamps. Engines revved and headlights cut through the twilight. One by one, bikes rolled out – a roaring procession through the backroads and highways that Pat Mitchell himself had traveled so many times. Neighbors stepped out onto porches to wave as the long convoy of motorcycles thundered past, stretching for blocks. It was an elegiac celebration on wheels, an act of communal remembrance in the only way the biker community truly knows: riding free in honor of a fallen friend.
To understand what brought an army of strangers to ride together in the rain for a small-town man, one must travel back through the decades of Pat Mitchell’s life, a life woven from equal parts steel and heart. Patrick “Pat” L. Mitchell’s story begins in the tiny town of Jonesboro, Indiana, where he was born on New Year’s Day, 1962. Jonesboro sat quietly on the banks of the Mississinewa River, a dot on the map in Grant County. In Pat’s youth, it was the sort of place where every face was familiar and the rhythms of life were slow and steady. The charm and aggravation of small-town life shaped him in equal measure. On one hand, there was comfort in community – neighbors who looked out for one another, local traditions, the annual festivities. On the other, Pat chafed at the limitations that came with everyone knowing everyone else’s business. Even as a boy delivering newspapers and racing his bicycle down Jonesboro’s sleepy streets, he possessed an innate independent streak. Family members recall a youngster who insisted on digging deep into things, never content with easy answers. If told he couldn’t do something, Pat was apt to flash a crooked grin and try anyway. It wasn’t defiance for defiance’s sake so much as a natural curiosity and leadership spark that would later ignite larger endeavors.
Pat grew up in a working-class clan with a strong entrepreneurial bent. His father, Leonard Mitchell, ran a modest but reputable food distribution outfit, Mitchell’s Distributing, out of Marion, the nearby county seat. As a teenager, Pat often rose before dawn to ride along in his dad’s delivery truck, helping haul crates of Hostess cakes or Frito-Lay snacks to grocery stores across the Midwest. Those long drives with his father doubled as life lessons. Leonard Mitchell was a man of old-school integrity who preached the values of hard work and excellence. There was pride in even the most menial task, and Pat absorbed that ethic readily. But he also saw how small-town businesses could dream big, his father had once worked with industry giants, and dinner conversations in the Mitchell household rang with tales of deals and disappointments from as far back as the 1950s, when companies like Sap’s Donuts (later Hostess) loomed large in local lore. Pat listened wide-eyed, taking mental notes. He might have been the kid brother in a bustling family (he had several siblings, each with their own bold personality), but Pat learned early how to make his voice heard among them. An older sister recalls that even as a child, he had “an uncanny ability to understand people” – reading intentions and defusing squabbles with a quick joke or a stubborn refusal to back down. These were the budding traits of a natural leader, though as a teenager he likely wouldn’t have claimed the title.
By his late teens, Pat’s life took an unexpected turn that forced him to grow up fast. At 19, he discovered his high school girlfriend was pregnant. In the small-town Midwest of the early 1980s, it was the kind of news that could spark gossip for weeks. Pat met the situation head-on with a mix of youthful nerve and earnest responsibility. “We’ll do the right thing,” he declared, and he meant it. In 1981, barely on the cusp of adulthood, he married his girlfriend and prepared to become a father. There was no elaborate ceremony, a courthouse wedding and a gathering of a few family members. Pat, however, was determined. He craved freedom on his own terms, and if that meant trading carefree youth for a baby and a ring, so be it. In his mind, stepping up for his new family was its own kind of rebellion against expectations.
For a time, young Pat threw himself into the role of husband and new father with the same gusto he showed in everything else. He juggled odd jobs – working at a local factory by day and pumping gas in the evenings – anything to put food on the table for his wife and infant son. Yet the pressures of early marriage at such a tender age were immense. Arguments flared, money ran short, and the weight of responsibility bore down on two people who were still practically kids themselves. Within a year, the marriage buckled. They separated and eventually divorced, a painful and humbling episode for Pat. At barely 20, he was a divorced man with a toddler. In a town that remembered everyone’s history, it would have been easy for him to feel like a public failure. But those who knew Pat noticed: his commitment to fatherhood never wavered. He doted on his little boy, Patrick Jr., during his custody time, and taking him to fishing on sunny afternoons. If anything, the collapse of his first marriage steeled Pat’s resolve to take responsibility for his choices. He refused to let the stumbles of youth define the kind of father he would be.
By the mid-1980s, restless and seeking a fresh start, Pat Mitchell made a bold decision. He packed up a few belongings, kissed his son goodbye (promising it was only “see you later” and not goodbye for good), and left the only hometown he’d ever known. Oklahoma was calling him, a place vast and unfamiliar, where a young man could reinvent himself and provide more for his family. Pat’s departure from Jonesboro was bittersweet: he was leaving family and the son he adored in the care of his ex-wife and relatives, but he was convinced that opportunity lay out on the open road. He craved the wide sky and new horizons. With a used Chevy pickup and a couple hundred dollars in his pocket, he headed westward, chasing a new chapter.
Oklahoma in the 1980s greeted Pat with dusty roads, endless prairies, and a culture that balanced oilfield grit with cowboy charm. He landed a job with a cable television company in a suburb of Oklahoma City, an energetic Hoosier kid suddenly learning the ropes of laying coaxial cable and installing TV sets for ranchers and suburbanites alike. The work was physical and technical, which suited him fine; he loved figuring out how things worked and didn’t mind climbing poles or crawling under houses to get a job done. Pat’s easygoing, extroverted nature quickly made him a favorite among customers and coworkers. Riding in the company truck from site to site, he would pepper his Oklahoma-born colleagues with questions about the local culture, and in turn regale them with stories of Indiana life – cornfields, basketball, and his toddler back home.
It was in Oklahoma that Pat stumbled into one of the most extraordinary escapades of his life. Through a coworker, he got invited to a weekend outing that was equal parts job and dare: rattlesnake wrangling. In rural parts of the state, annual rattlesnake round-ups were a tradition, events where locals hunt rattlesnakes, both for population control and the carnival thrill of it. The notion was wild and a little frightening, which was exactly why Pat Mitchell couldn’t resist. One sweltering Saturday, he found himself in dusty high grass outside a town called Okeene, a burlap sack in one hand and a snake-catching hook in the other. The air vibrated with the telltale buzz of rattlers. Most sane people would blanch at the sound, but Pat pressed on, adrenaline coursing. Over the course of a day, he helped corral several large diamondback rattlesnakes from under scrub brush, even seizing one behind the head after it lunged at another man’s boot. His buddies whooped and hollered as Pat coolly dropped the writhing serpent into a barrel.
After a couple of years soaking up the Oklahoma sun and spirit, Pat began to feel the magnetic pull of home. By 1985, he was in his early twenties and had gained a trove of experiences far beyond what most Jonesboro peers could imagine. He had proven to himself that he could stand on his own two feet in an unknown place. But he missed his son deeply – photos and long-distance phone calls weren’t enough. And he hadn’t forgotten Indiana’s green fields and familiar faces. So Pat Mitchell returned to Grant County, ready to put down roots once more.
Back in his beloved Indiana, Pat found a landscape both familiar and changed. His son was now a rambunctious preschooler who greeted him with excited hugs. Jonesboro still had the same quiet streets and old brick facades, but Pat came home with a broader perspective and a fire in his belly to build something of his own. He soon reunited with his family and was drawn into the family business orbit that had been his training ground in youth. Leonard Mitchell welcomed his son’s return and gladly brought Pat on in the distribution business, sending him out on delivery routes across the state. Pat crisscrossed Indiana and neighboring states with trucks full of bread, snacks, and dry goods, just as his father had years before. Those long drives became brainstorming sessions in his mind, each mile humming under the tires was an invitation for Pat to dream up the next venture.
It didn’t take long for Pat’s entrepreneurial spirit to push him toward new horizons. By the late 1980s, the economic currents in Indiana were changing, and Pat noticed an intriguing opportunity floating on the fringes of the industries he served. At warehouses and factories he visited, wooden pallets, those unremarkable, ubiquitous platforms for shipping, were in constant demand and short supply. Where others saw mundane shipping equipment, Pat saw dollar signs. Pallets were the unsung backbone of commerce, and as manufacturing around Grant County grew, so did the need for someone to build and supply those pallets. With characteristic enthusiasm, Pat set his sights on establishing a pioneering pallet business of his own in nearby Marion.
He scraped together funds, drew up a business plan, and opened a small plant to produce pallets, envisioning it as the next great Mitchell enterprise. For a time, things looked promising. Pat hustled to secure contracts and invested sweat equity in every board cut and nail driven. But the road of entrepreneurship is never smooth. A devastating blow struck when he lost a million-dollar contract with Bell Fiber, a major packaging company that had been a cornerstone of his new venture. The details of the deal’s collapse were less important than its impact: without that contract, the young pallet business couldn’t stay afloat. The debts outweighed the income, and Pat had to face the music of bankruptcy. It was a moment of profound disappointment, to work so hard only to see a dream crumble overnight. This failure would not be the end of his entrepreneurial ambitions however.
Pat Mitchell, however, was not one to be easily defeated. He licked his wounds, learned from his missteps, and refused to be defined by the setback. In the early 1990s, an opportunity for redemption arose from within his own family. Pat’s older brother, a sharp-minded businessman in his own right, proposed that they join forces in another venture. The brother had spotted potential in the same industry that had bruised Pat: pallets. There was a pallet manufacturing outfit in Wabash, a town a few counties over, that needed partners and fresh energy. Despite the sting of his recent failure, Pat’s resilient nature kicked in. Along with his brother and a third partner, and bringing along a trusted friend named Jeff Fields for the ride, he dove back into the pallet business. This time, it was a collaborative leap of faith, family and friends pooling resources and know-how.
The Wabash pallet venture was a test of Pat’s ability to turn setbacks into comebacks, and by most accounts, he rose to the occasion. The trio built up operations, secured clients, and made a name for themselves in the regional pallet market. It wasn’t without friction – partnerships seldom are – but it proved that Pat still had his knack for enterprise. After a few years, though, another turning point arrived. Pat faced the difficult decision to sell his stake in the pallet business to his brother and step away. The reasons were manifold: a mix of strategic differences, his own restless drive for something new, and perhaps the simple recognition that it was time to close that chapter. Walking away was not easy – building a business is like raising a child, and letting go can feel like a loss. Yet Pat treated it not as an end, but as an opening to reinvent himself once more.
By the mid-1990s, Pat returned to his brother’s orbit, this time in the trucking business. His brother ran a small fleet hauling freight, and Pat wasn’t above getting his hands dirty. He climbed into the cab and ran long-haul routes as a truck driver, finding a certain peace in the solitude of the highway. Still, one could sense that this was a holding pattern for Pat Mitchell, a way to earn a living while his ever-churning mind evaluated the next move. He had been a distributor, a factory man, a cable guy, a pallet maker; what next? The answer, improbably, came from the encouragement of the very same brother who had roped him into trucking. This brother believed that Pat’s gift of gab and dogged persistence could serve him well in one of the most demanding sales arenas of all: life insurance.
It was an unexpected pivot, but Pat rarely shied away from the unexpected. Selling insurance had a certain all-or-nothing reputation – only the thick-skinned survived, and commissions were earned through sheer grit. Pat saw it as a challenge to test his mettle. With the confidence of a natural salesman, he dove in, becoming a door-to-door life insurance agent in the late 1990s. The work was indeed grueling. He knocked on strangers’ doors, gave kitchen-table pitches about protecting one’s family, and heard “no” more times than he could count. Rejection in insurance sales was famously relentless, but so was Pat. “A hundred doors closed for every sale,” he later joked to a friend, “but I just kept knocking because somewhere behind door 101 was a family I could help.” Over a decade, he honed his interpersonal skills and learned the intricacies of whole vs. term policies, annuities, and riders. Pat’s career took him through stints at American General, then Farm Bureau Insurance for five years, and eventually Norris Insurance for another five. The progression through these companies was a testament to his refusal to quit; he was always seeking a better opportunity, a new territory, another chance to prove himself.
In time, Pat Mitchell earned a reputation as a trusted insurance agent, the guy who honestly wanted to ensure your kids would be okay if the worst happened. He had a way of breaking down the complexities of insurance into plain talk, often peppering his pitch with personal anecdotes, like how having a policy gave him peace of mind as a young father. Clients appreciated his sincerity. It helped that Pat treated everyone like family, whether you were a trucker wanting a small policy or a business owner securing a large one. By the early 2000s, he had built up a solid client base and, outwardly, it appeared that Pat had found his groove at last. He was in his early forties, happily remarried to the love of his life (more on that soon), and making decent money. But life, as Pat well knew by then, has a way of throwing curveballs just when you think you’re cruising.
The curveball arrived in the summer of 2002 in the form of a tiny mosquito. Pat Mitchell had survived business failures and wild snake hunts, but fate tested him anew with a West Nile virus infection. What started as flu-like aches swiftly turned into a medical ordeal. The virus hit Pat hard – he was hospitalized with high fever, severe headaches, and confusion. At one point, when the illness was at its peak, Pat’s sturdy frame could barely shuffle down a hallway; the virus sapped not only his strength but also muddled his typically sharp mind. Cognitive effects of West Nile can be pernicious, and Pat found himself struggling with memory lapses and fatigue even after the initial sickness subsided.
For a man as active and mentally agile as Pat, those months convalescing were torture. Simple tasks like balancing a checkbook or climbing stairs became daunting. Perhaps most crushing for Pat was the realization that he couldn’t perform at work. How do you sell life insurance when you’re grappling with brain fog and physical weakness? Recognizing his limitations, Pat made the painful decision to step back from his insurance career to focus on healing. He had spent years building that career, but in typical fashion, he reframed it as an opportunity for transformation. This hiatus was not surrender; it was a strategic retreat to regroup his health.
From Leatherwork to Legacy: Ride & Leather’s Beginnings
During the long, quiet days of recuperation, Pat found solace in the two great sources of strength in his life: family and craft. Carmen, his wife, became his rock (as she had been since the day they reconnected – we’ll soon revisit that serendipitous tale). She cooked his meals, ferried him to doctor appointments, and patiently encouraged him through bouts of frustration. His home in Jonesboro became a kind of private rehab center. Pat did crossword puzzles to sharpen his memory and walked a little further down the block each day to rebuild stamina. And when idle anxiety threatened to creep in, he turned to an old hobby that he had dabbled in on the side for years: leatherworking.
Few people knew that Pat Mitchell was a cobbler at heart. Even while selling insurance, he had spent weekends tinkering with leather, crafting moccasins and belts using tools passed down from his Aunt Cathy and Uncle Frank, relatives who had been artisans of the trade. From them, Pat had learned the basics of cutting hides and stitching, but much of his skill was self-taught through trial and error. In the dim light of his garage-turned-workshop, he would experiment with patterns and techniques, the rich smell of leather and dyes filling the air. Leatherwork appealed to Pat’s creative and inventive side; it gave him a tangible sense of accomplishment that selling insurance never could. Now, as he recovered from West Nile’s ravages, Pat found therapy in the rhythmic mallet blows and careful threading of leathercraft. It not only kept his hands busy but also gave him a renewed sense of purpose. Every small project, a pair of soft-soled moccasins or a tooled knife sheath, was a victory on his road back to health.
In many ways, surviving West Nile marked a turning point in Pat Mitchell’s life. He emerged from the illness with a deeper appreciation for life’s fragility and a fierce determination to seize the day. It also nudged him onto a new professional path, one that combined his entrepreneurial drive, his craftsmanship, and a lifelong love that had been quietly growing in the background: motorcycles. Pat had always been a motorcycle enthusiast – he got his first motorbike as a teenager, a rickety Honda he’d ride down country roads to feel the wind. Through all the jobs and moves, he’d kept riding as a hobby. Now, recovering in the early 2000s, he saw a chance to turn that passion into something more.
As soon as he was well enough, Pat set about launching a new business. Knowing he needed broader support and expertise, Pat reached out to Jerry’s Leather Shop in Marion, a well-known old-school leather goods store in the area. Pat introduced himself to Jerry (a veteran leatherworker known for making motorcycle jackets and saddlebags) and showed him a pair of moccasins and a custom knife sheath he’d crafted. Impressed by the younger man’s workmanship, Jerry agreed to a kind of partnership: Pat could operate in the front corner of the shop during the week and run part of Jerry’s shop on Saturdays, bringing in his own products, while learning the ropes of retail. In return, Jerry got a trustworthy hand to mind the store on the busiest day of the week. It was an old-fashioned mentorship deal, the kind that benefited both men. Pat threw himself into this opportunity. Pat set out his handmade moccasins, wallets, and leather tooling art alongside Jerry’s inventory. He listened carefully to customer feedback, fine-tuning his craft with each piece sold.
The true breakthrough moment arrived, fittingly, by listening to a customer’s need. One day, a fellow motorcyclist walked into the shop and complained about how hard his Harley’s seat felt on long rides. He asked if Pat could craft a sheepskin cover for his seat, something softer for an upcoming road trip. Pat could have sold a quick off-the-shelf pad, but instead, his eyes lit up. Here was a problem to solve. He went to his workbench and began tinkering. The request for a custom sheepskin motorcycle seat cover led him down a path of research and innovation. He experimented with layers of foam, gel inserts, and different furs and leathers. In the end, Pat not only made the sheepskin cover, but also realized there was a whole untapped niche for motorcycle comfort accessories. If one rider wanted a better seat, surely others did too.
His concept was to fuse his leatherworking skills with motorcycle riding comfort: a shop that would make custom motorcycle seats and leather accessories to give riders more comfort on the open road. It was a niche market, but one he intuitively understood, after hours in the saddle, every biker knows the value of a good seat. In 2003, true to form, Pat opened a small storefront in his hometown of Jonesboro and hung up a shingle. He called it Ride & Leather, a straightforward name that signaled exactly what he did. The early days were humble. He initially rented a cramped space at 320 S. Main Street in Jonesboro, a spot that was almost ready for a business, but not quite. Pat didn’t mind the scrappiness of it; he saw the potential.
Thus, Pat Mitchell’s foray into motorcycle seat design was born. He spent hours dissecting old seats, prototyping cushions, and riding for miles on test pads to get the feel just right. Eventually he hit upon a winning combination: memory foam and medical-grade gel layered into custom-cut seat pads. The difference in comfort was night and day. Riders who tried Pat’s modified seats joked they felt like they were “riding on a cloud” instead of a vibrating bike frame. Demand ballooned. By the mid-2000s, Ride & Leather had outgrown its corner in Jerry’s shop. Pat’s landlord in Jonesboro, the local Masonic Lodge, offered a larger building for rent, an old brick lodge hall on Main Street. Pat moved his expanding workshop there, thinking he’d found a perfect long-term home.
Life, however, had another twist of frustration in store. The arrangement with the lodge went sour in a bizarre way: despite paying rent (and eventually even agreeing to buy the building), Pat was denied access to the property due to internal lodge politics. He found himself in the absurd position of holding the deed and paying taxes on a building he couldn’t occupy. To a man who valued fairness and had always paid his dues, it was a maddening situation. Among the lodge members was Pat’s own sister, Kammy – which made the impasse all the more painful. She was fond of her brother but bound by the lodge’s decisions. Pat attempted a reasonable deal: he offered to purchase the building outright for a fair price, $35,000 (with $15,000 upfront and $20,000 the next year). The lodge elders, however, insisted on a higher price. Stymied and worried that he might lose his business space altogether, Pat started exploring alternatives. Fatefully, he soon stumbled across another building for sale in Marion, at the very same price the lodge was demanding.
This Marion property came with a storied past – it was a historic building on South Washington Street right on the courthouse square. The place had seen better days (it was cluttered with old inventory and in need of serious renovation), but Pat could see beyond the dust and decay; the roof was caving and the back supporting wall was crumbling. He saw destiny. “If I can’t have the lodge, I’ll have this,” he decided. Without wasting time, he contacted a realtor and put in a $15,000 offer on the Marion building. The negotiations that followed were unexpectedly complex – the owners were overseas, and at one point attorneys from China were involved in ironing out the deal. For three months, it was touch-and-go, with paperwork flying and Pat growing anxious. But in early 2015, persistence paid off and the deal was sealed: Pat Mitchell emerged victorious as the owner of 314 S. Washington Street in Marion.
The move of Ride & Leather from Jonesboro to Marion was more than just a change of address. It was, symbolically, a homecoming for Marion’s motorcycle heritage. By setting up shop in downtown Marion, Pat consciously linked his future with the city’s past. Marion officials praised him for “making a direct nod to the history of our community”. Pat wasted no time in fixing up the place, clearing out the cobwebs and organizing the old junk, reinforcing the floors, painting walls. It was hard, dusty work, but he attacked it with relish, fully aware that the hurdles were a small price to pay for securing his future and a space of his own. By the time Ride & Leather’s Marion storefront officially opened, Pat was nearly 53 years old and as proud as he’d ever been of anything. He had built something enduring from the ground up, and now it lived in a building where you could almost hear the whispers of 100 years of motorcycle history.
Founding the Jonesboro River Rally (2005)
Even as Pat’s leather business was taking off, another venture, perhaps his most famous legacy, was revving up on a parallel track. In 2005, back when Ride & Leather was still in Jonesboro and finding its footing, Pat had acted on a simple but ambitious idea: why not start a motorcycle rally right here in Jonesboro? At the time, the notion might have sounded far-fetched. Jonesboro was a sleepy town of just over 1,200 people, not exactly Sturgis or Daytona. But Pat had a way of seeing potential where others didn’t. He loved bringing people together and he loved motorcycles; a rally was the natural marriage of those passions. That year, with the help of his wife Carmen, he organized the first Jonesboro River Rally. (GrantConnected).
At the time, Jonesboro was a quiet town of just over 1,200 people – but Pat envisioned it as the perfect gathering place for motorcycle enthusiasts. The first rally started modestly, reportedly with only “four booths” of vendors (GrantConnected) and a handful of local riders participating. Pat and Carmen’s motorcycle shop, Ride & Leather, sat on Main Street and served as a rallying point for that inaugural event (GrantConnected). What began as a small-town meetup quickly struck a chord: here was a free motorcycle rally where everyone was welcome, from hardcore bikers to local families. Pat’s friendly, all-inclusive approach helped the Jonesboro River Rally grow rapidly each year. “In 2005, he initiated the Jonesboro River Rally, which grew to become the largest motorcycle rally in the state of Indiana (City of Marion),” notes a local Marion news piece, underscoring just how significant the event became under his leadership.
Thousands of motorcyclists line Jonesboro’s Main Street during the annual River Rally, transforming the small Indiana town into a bustling hub of biker culture. (IMPS)
From the outset, Pat Mitchell emphasized that the rally should be more than just bikes on display – it had to be an experience. Over the years, he expanded the event’s offerings to include live music, stunt shows, contests, and plenty of food and vendors. Longtime attendees recall the addition of adrenaline-pumping attractions like a motorcycle trapeze high-wire thrill show and the famed “Ball of Steel” globe where stunt riders perform daring loops (Grant County Visitors Bureau). By the mid-2010s, the Jonesboro River Rally was drawing big-name regional bands and hosting full weekend schedules: bike shows and audio competitions by day, rock concerts by night (IMPS). It wasn’t unusual for families to attend together – children in tow, watching wide-eyed as riders performed in the moto rodeo or lining up for a carnival-style bite to eat. What had started as Pat Mitchell’s local passion project was fast becoming a marquee event on Indiana’s biker calendar.
Building Indiana’s Largest Motorcycle Rally
Nearly two decades on, the Jonesboro River Rally now proudly bills itself as “the state of Indiana’s largest biker rally.” That claim is backed up by numbers. Each year during the last full weekend of September, this free rally draws an estimated 15,000–20,000 motorcycles into Jonesboro (IMPS) – literally outnumbering the local population many times over. “Virtually overnight, this rural town…becomes the loudest place in Indiana,” one preservation society article quipped, describing how Main Street overflows with an “army in black leather, t-shirts, boots, and tattoos” each rally weekend (IMPS). Riders travel not only from across Indiana and neighboring states, but from all across the U.S. and even dozens of other countries to be part of the festivities (IMPS). It’s a remarkable sight: a once-sleepy street now roaring with engines, vendors’ tents lining the sidewalks, and chrome gleaming everywhere under the autumn sun (GrantConnected).
The rally’s explosive growth was no accident – it was nurtured by Pat’s constant drive to make each year bigger and better. Organizers joke that Pat always looked for “something new and special” to add every year (IMPS), whether that meant more specialty vendors or new entertainment acts. By offering free admission and camping, the event has remained accessible and appealing to a broad audience, from weekend riders to 1% club members to curious locals. The result is a unique blend of people: “From well-heeled professionals with their expensive motorcycles to working men and women with children in tow,” all enjoying the same rally camaraderie (American Rider). The Jonesboro River Rally has essentially transformed the local economy for one weekend each year – food trucks, local restaurants, hotels, and gas stations in Grant County all see a boom in business thanks to the influx of visitors. In a sense, Pat Mitchell managed to turn Jonesboro into a destination for motorcycle culture, putting it on par with more famous bike events in terms of spirit if not size.
Celebrating Motorcycle Heritage: Cornfield Classic and Hog Daze
The Jonesboro River Rally isn’t just a big party, it sits at the intersection of Indiana’s rich motorcycling heritage and a broader Midwestern biker culture. Grant County has deep roots in motorsports and motorcycles. Back in 1919 and 1920, Marion hosted the Cornfield Classic, an early motorcycle race that drew international attention (City of Marion). Mid-20th century Marion earned the nickname “Home of the Hog” and was known for the Hog Daze motorcycle festivals, a tradition honoring the Harley-Davidson legacy. This history wasn’t lost on Pat Mitchell. By moving his Ride & Leather shop into a historic building in downtown Marion, he actively connected the modern rally to the area’s past (City of Marion). Local officials praised him for “making a direct nod to the history of our community” (City of Marion). In this light, the Jonesboro River Rally can be seen as continuing a Hoosier tradition, celebrating freedom, machines, and the open road, that had been part of the region for over a century.
The timing of the rally each year also gives it a special regional flavor. It coincides with the Ducktail Run in Gas City and James Dean Festival in Fairmount (honoring the iconic 1950s actor who hailed from Grant County). Rally-goers often find themselves amid classic car cruise-ins and rockabilly fans who come for James Dean nostalgia, making late September in Grant County a kind of all-around celebration of midwestern Americana on wheels. Jonesboro’s event, of course, focuses on bikes, but there’s a crossover appeal. Many visitors will swing by the James Dean Run car show in Fairmount by day, then head to Jonesboro for the motorcycle street party at night, or vice versa. The synergy of these simultaneous events has further boosted the Jonesboro River Rally’s profile and attendance. It’s not just a local gathering anymore; it’s part of a larger cultural pilgrimage for gearheads.
Crucially, the rally has maintained a welcoming, family-friendly atmosphere despite its growth. Groups like the Christian Motorcyclists Association (CMA) have been a staple presence from the very first rally, offering blessings and free services to riders who want them (GrantConnected). “The biker community welcomes and invites the CMA to come to a lot of the rallies, because we are not a threat…we’re not Bible thumpers,” one CMA member explained of their easy coexistence with the rally crowd (GrantConnected). That spirit of mutual respect – whether you ride for ministry, for adrenaline, or just for fun – characterizes the Jonesboro River Rally. It’s a place where veterans on Harleys park next to young sport-bike enthusiasts, where local church groups sell homemade pies alongside tattoo artists and leather vendors. In a state and region where love of motorcycling runs deep, the rally has become an institution, annually reinforcing the Midwest’s reputation as a welcoming place for riders of all stripes.
Community, Family, and Legacy
Amid this success, Pat Mitchell never lost sight of the rally’s deeper meaning. To him, it wasn’t just about the spectacle; it was about celebrating community and history. And as it turned out, Grant County had quite a motorcycle history to celebrate. Sometime around 2009, as Pat was looking for historical photos to decorate his expanding shop, he stumbled on that fascinating bit of local lore: back in 1919 and 1920, Marion had hosted an international motorcycle championship race known as the Cornfield Classic, beating out other big cities for the honor. He read how a local Harley-Davidson shop owner named Glen Scott had drummed up civic support to put Marion on the map a century earlier. And then there was the whimsical tale of the hog: in 1920, champion racer Ray Weishaar of the Harley “Wrecking Crew” purchased a small piglet from a local farm boy on race day. Ray hoisted the hog after his victory, the team adopted it as a mascot, and the image of roughneck bikers cuddling a squealing pig struck a chord. The Harley team became known as the “hog boys”, and eventually, that led to the founding of the Harley Owners Group – H.O.G. – and the widespread association of Harleys with “hogs”. Marion, Indiana, quietly held a claim as the “Home of the Hog,” a birthplace of a biker legend.
This discovery lit a fire in Pat. Here was a story that few in the area knew, yet it was something to be proud of and to build a celebration around. With his characteristic enthusiasm, he shared the news with Marion city officials and the local Harley dealer (Brandt’s Harley-Davidson) to bring that history to life. In 2010, they launched “Hog Daze” – initially a one-night event on a patch of city land, commemorating Marion’s unique place in Harley-Davidson lore. They brought out vintage bike displays, live music, and of course a ceremonial hog (stuffed animal, for fun). The event quickly gained popularity, evolving into a full Hog Daze Motorcycle Rally and Music Festival in subsequent years. Pat was a founding force behind it, though interestingly he took a backseat on Hog Daze’s day-to-day organizing. With the River Rally consuming much of his time, he chose to entrust others to carry forward the vision of Hog Daze.
Hog Daze went through its own evolution. At first, the Main Street Marion civic group ran it; later, the local chapter of ABATE (a motorcycle rights organization) took the reins. But as the event grew and ABATE’s bandwidth stretched thin, a new solution emerged. In 2016, a handful of passionate folks, inspired by Pat’s vision of preserving Indiana’s motorcycle history, formed the Indiana Motorcycle Preservation Society (IMPS), specifically to take over Hog Daze and similar heritage projects. The group’s mission was to share Indiana’s motorcycle stories and keep legends like the Cornfield Classic and Marion’s heritage story as Home of the Hog alive. When they approached Pat in 2020 to become the President of IMPS, he was initially hesitant. By then, Pat was nearly 60 and juggling his business and the River Rally. Did he really need another hat to wear? But the significance of the request wasn’t lost on him. Here was a chance to shape the legacy of something he deeply cared about, to cement the rally and Cornfield Classic into the fabric of the community for generations to come. True to form, he accepted the role.
Under Pat’s leadership, IMPS rebranded the annual Hog Daze rally with an even stronger historical emphasis. They started integrating storytelling booths, exhibits of old Indiana riding photos, and gathering oral histories from veteran motorcyclists. Pat was like a kid in a candy store, digging through archives for motorcycle club newsletters from the 1940s or attempting track down descendants of Glen Scott, Ray Creviston, and others for an interview. As an avid reader and researcher, he understood that stories have power – they inspire, they create pride, they bind communities together. Pat wanted every biker in Indiana to know that they rode on hallowed ground, so to speak. And he wanted Marion and Jonesboro’s contributions to biker lore to be known far and wide.
Throughout these bustling years of business expansions, rallies, and preservation work, Pat’s personal life provided both ballast and trials. Perhaps the most fateful event occurred not in a boardroom or biker bar, but in a little tavern in Jonesboro one evening in the late 1980s. After returning from Oklahoma and getting back into the groove of Indiana life, Pat often unwound with friends at a local watering hole called Folkies Tavern. It was the kind of place with neon beer signs in the window and the same regulars on Friday nights. One night, Pat looked across the bar and did a double take – he recognized a woman’s face he hadn’t seen since childhood. It was Carmen, a girl who’d been friends with one of his sisters decades ago. He remembered tagging along annoyingly when his sister and Carmen listened to records in the Mitchell living room back in the day, and he remembered harboring a secret crush on Carmen’s bright smile and easy laugh.
Carmen, in turn, didn’t immediately recognize Pat. After all, the last time she’d seen him, he was an awkward kid hanging around his older sister’s friends. Now he was a grown man, sun-weathered from Oklahoma, confident from all he’d been through. Gathering his nerve (which, considering he’d grabbed rattlesnakes bare-handed, was saying something), Pat approached her. He reintroduced himself, Leonard Mitchell’s son, your friend’s little brother, and Carmen’s eyes widened with recollection. They fell into conversation that stretched long into the night. They reminisced about Jonesboro school days, caught up on where life had taken each of them, and laughed over old neighborhood gossip. Pat was struck by how Carmen hadn’t just grown up to be beautiful, but was also grounded, kind, and a good listener. Carmen later admitted that what sparked for her was Pat’s warmth, he made her feel like they’d only parted yesterday, not twenty years ago.
That chance encounter at Folkies was the dawn of a love story that would span nearly four decades of marriage. Pat and Carmen became inseparable soon after that night. They married in the early 1980s (Carmen would chuckle telling people she “married the boy next door, only 20 years later”). Together they raised a blended family, Pat’s son from his first marriage was warmly embraced by Carmen as her own, and later they had a daughter together. As partners, Carmen and Pat complemented each other. Where Pat was a whirlwind of ideas and projects, Carmen was the steady hand, managing the books of the business, organizing rally logistics, and gently steering Pat’s wilder impulses into practical plans. Their home was often headquarters for family and community gatherings, a place where bikers, church friends, and neighbors all felt equally welcome. Carmen shared Pat’s love of motorcycles, too. She often rode pillion on Pat’s bike during charity rides, arms wrapped around him as they cruised Indiana’s backroads on sunny afternoons.
But life tested the Mitchells in the most heartbreaking way a parent can be tested. Their daughter, Lillie, was a bright and beautiful soul who struggled mightily with inner demons as she grew into adulthood. There were battles with addiction and mental health challenges along her path. Pat and Carmen rallied around her with every resource and ounce of love they had, but the journey was turbulent and fraught with hospital visits, rehab stays, and nights of tearful prayers. At 30 years old, Lillie’s life ended. Pat and Carmen, devout in their faith, struggled to comprehend but knew they most keep on.
No loss could have cut deeper. The passing of a child is every parent’s worst nightmare, and for Pat it was an almost unbearable weight. This gregarious, strong man was, for a time, reduced to sobs and silence. Carmen and Pat clung to each other in the aftermath, sometimes just sitting on the porch swing in wordless grief. In the community, those who knew the family gave them space and support; a quiet understanding that the Mitchells were navigating treacherous emotional waters. Every passing moment took on new significance for Pat after Lillie’s death. He emerged from that dark valley a changed man. In public, he was still the warm, friendly face of the rally, but close friends noticed a new depth in his eyes, an even greater compassion for others’ pain, a patience in listening that was profound. Pat and Carmen leaned more deeply into their faith to carry them through, finding solace in prayer and in the belief that their daughter was at peace. Pat often said that losing Lillie taught him to cherish life’s every fleeting second.
In the last years of Pat’s life, it seemed he had finally woven all the threads of his journey into a cohesive tapestry. By 2020, Pat was in his late fifties and had become something of a folk hero in Grant County’s biker and small business communities, the man who’d survived setbacks and snakes and come out the other side with a booming rally, a beloved shop, and a mission to preserve history. He was remarkably humble about his success, often brushing off praise by attributing it to his team or sheer luck. Those close to him knew that underneath that humility was an unshakeable core of determination and optimism. Pat’s life was a living testament to resilience and reinvention, and folks drew inspiration from it. Young entrepreneurs would stop by the Marion store just to pick his brain, and he always obliged, sharing stories of his failures as much as his victories. He became a mentor to many, perhaps remembering how his father, brother, and Jerry, and others had mentored him along the way.
Yet, fate had one final challenge for Pat Mitchell. In late 2021, routine medical tests revealed an unwelcome adversary: cancer. First it was prostate cancer, a common foe for men of his age. Pat tackled it head-on, undergoing treatment with stoic resolve and a characteristically upbeat attitude. The treatments seemed successful. But in early 2023, as Pat was gearing up for the rally’s big 18th year and expanding Ride & Leather’s online store, a persistent sore throat led to a tougher diagnosis: cancer in his esophagus, aggressive and advanced. He underwent surgery and rounds of chemotherapy, but the disease spread to his liver by mid-2023. Doctors gave him the bleak news that barring a miracle, he had only a short time left.
True to his character, Pat confronted this final chapter with clear-eyed pragmatism and courage. Within 24 hours of learning his prognosis, he had sat down with Carmen, his son Patrick Jr., and key members of his team to discuss the future. “I won’t last forever, so I’ve been working on this concept for a long time,” he told them, referring to the continuity plans he’d quietly been setting in place. Indeed, Pat had been preparing for this juncture well before the diagnosis. He had a vision that each piece of his work would continue without him. The retail side of Ride & Leather, he believed, should expand online to reach more customers. The workshop, full of his beloved tools and machines, could empower the next generation of leatherworkers, he owned clicker presses, sewing machines, holster molds, and vats of leather dye that he imagined being put to use long after he was gone. Even the rally, his most public legacy, he had gradually structured to be run without him, ensuring it wouldn’t collapse if he had to step back. This was Pat’s ultimate act of leadership: securing the future for others, knowing he wouldn’t be there to lead it himself.
A Lasting Tribute: The Pat Mitchell Memorial Ride
On August 10, 2023, the Jonesboro River Rally community was struck by heartbreaking news: Pat Mitchell passed away at age 61 (Obituary). The cancer took Pat much faster than anyone anticipated. The loss of the rally’s founder – the man who had been the driving force behind it for 18 years – was felt deeply across Grant County. Many wondered what would become of the beloved event without Pat at the helm. However, even in mourning, the community’s resolve was strong. Carmen Mitchell, Pat’s wife and co-founder, immediately stepped up to ensure the 2023 rally would go on as planned that September (GrantConnected). With the support of volunteer organizers and sponsors, Carmen supervised that year’s rally, determined to honor her husband’s legacy by “riding on” despite the difficult circumstances (GrantConnected).
The 2023 Jonesboro River Rally thus turned into an outpouring of love and remembrance for Pat. Attendees recall that throughout the weekend, tributes to Pat Mitchell were everywhere. Perhaps the most heartfelt tribute came in the form of a group ride held on the rally’s pre-opening appreciation day. Engines revved in unison as they departed, rolling through the streets in a solemn procession to honor the man who had brought them all together. “Thank you all for showing up for Pat’s ride,” the rally’s social media page posted, as hundreds of riders paid their respects in the best way the biker community knows how – by riding free in memory of a fallen friend. The sight of that convoy, reportedly stretching for blocks, was a powerful symbol: Pat Mitchell’s spirit was still leading the pack.
By the following year, the idea of commemorating Pat had become an official part of the Jonesboro River Rally. In September 2024, the rally kicked off its 19th annual gathering with the inaugural Pat Mitchell Memorial Ride as a featured event on opening night (GrantConnected). This ride is now envisioned as an annual tradition, ensuring that Pat’s legacy remains front-and-center at each rally. The 2024 memorial ride took place on Thursday evening of rally week – a fitting time to launch the weekend’s festivities with a nod to the founder. Riders from near and far lined up for the “Founding Father’s Ride,” as some called it. A free community cookout was held just before departure, where donations were collected in Pat’s honor. It was both a memorial and a fundraiser – a way to remember the man and also sustain the event he loved. Local officials and Pat’s family members addressed the crowd briefly, thanking everyone for coming. Then, with headlights on in the dusk, the column of bikes roared off into the evening. For those who participated, it was an emotional ride through roads that Pat himself had traveled many times. “He’s with us in spirit, leading us,” one rider was quoted as saying.
The purpose of the Pat Mitchell Memorial Ride is twofold. First, it serves as a tribute to Pat – a celebration of his life and an acknowledgment that without him, there would be no Jonesboro River Rally. But it’s also about the broader community: it honors all the friends and fellow riders the community has lost. In fact, the 2024 memorial ride was dedicated not only to Pat but also to other local biking figures who had passed in recent years. (For example, organizers honored the family of Jeff Fields during that ride (IMPS), and remembered names like Steve Carver and Kevin Cox alongside Pat in tributes.) In this way, the memorial ride has become a moment of collective remembrance, where the rally community can pay respects to “absent friends” as well as the founding father. It brings a sense of camaraderie and reflection into an event that is otherwise filled with high-octane fun. As one might expect, the memorial ride has quickly become a cherished highlight of the rally weekend.
Despite the shadow of loss, the 2023 and 2024 Jonesboro River Rallies proved the strength and resilience of the community that Pat Mitchell built. The 2023 rally – coming just weeks after Pat’s passing – saw an incredible turnout. Longtime attendees and first-timers alike showed up in force, determined to honor Pat by making the event a success. That year, every rumbling bike engine and every cheering crowd felt like a tribute. The Thursday memorial ride in 2023 was especially well-attended, with riders flying banners that read “Ride in Peace, Pat”. It was clear that the rally meant as much to the community as it did to Pat himself. Local news outlets reported that even without its founder present, the River Rally ran smoothly under Carmen Mitchell’s leadership, “riding on” exactly as Pat would have wanted (GrantConnected). By the end of the weekend, there was a shared feeling among participants that the rally had entered a new era – one where Pat’s presence was felt in spirit rather than in person.
In 2024, the Jonesboro River Rally marked its 19th year, and if there were any doubts about its continuity, they were put to rest. The event once again drew thousands of motorcycles to Jonesboro’s streets, though Mother Nature didn’t entirely cooperate. Rain showers on and off during the weekend put a slight damper on attendance and outdoor activities (GrantConnected). But in true biker fashion, the crowds simply donned rain gear and kept on rolling. Vendors and bands adjusted, and the city police helped direct riders to alternate parking on firmer ground when some lots turned muddy. “Despite the smaller crowds due to a rainy weekend and the loss of a founder, the 2024 River Rally still managed to be another big success for the small town of Jonesboro,” one local feature reported (GrantConnected). The Pat Mitchell Memorial Ride on Thursday gave the whole weekend a meaningful start, and fortunately the skies were clear that evening for the dozens of bikes that took part. Over the next three days (Sept. 26–29, 2024), attendees enjoyed classic River Rally staples – from a pancake firemen’s breakfast and bike rodeo to roaring live rock music on the outdoor stage (IMPS). Sunday morning, the tradition of the “Waldo Ride” continued as well, with the Christian Motorcyclists Association leading a church service before riders set off on that legendary group ride (IMPS). Many noted that Pat would have been proud: even in his absence, the rally’s spirit of friendship and fun was as strong as ever.
Looking ahead, the Jonesboro River Rally shows no signs of slowing down. In 2025, the event will celebrate its 20th anniversary (a milestone that organizers sometimes dub the “20th Anniversary River Rally”), and plans are already underway to make it a memorable one. Promotional flyers for the 2025 rally prominently feature Pat Mitchell’s name and legacy – evidence that he remains the heart and soul of this event. The Pat Mitchell Memorial Ride will again open the rally on Thursday, and it’s expected to be bigger than ever as riders from all over plan to ride in for the anniversary. “It’s become a staple – we wouldn’t miss that ride,” one local biker said of the memorial event. As each year passes, what started as Pat’s personal project has truly become an institution. But amidst all the growth and change, Pat Mitchell’s imprint is unmistakable. Every revving engine on Main Street and every smiling face in the crowd is a testament to his vision of to build something bigger than all of us.
Pat Mitchell’s legacy in Jonesboro and the broader Indiana motorcycle scene is secure. He not only created a large-scale rally where there was none, but he also fostered a sense of community that endures beyond his lifetime. In a region known for legendary auto and bike events, Pat gave Grant County its own signature biker rally – one that celebrates local culture while welcoming outsiders with open arms. The Jonesboro River Rally stands as a living tribute to that achievement. Year after year, as the rumble of motorcycles returns to Jonesboro’s streets, Pat’s friends and family can take comfort and pride in knowing that his spirit rides on with each of those bikes.