The Miles We Shared: Remembering My Friend Larry Kea

Some friendships are measured in years.

Ours was measured in miles.

Over the last twenty years, Larry and I shared a lot of road together. Long highways, twisting mountain roads, and the occasional questionable detour that usually started with Larry saying something like, “Oh hell no… we’re not going back that way.”

That was Larry.

Direct. Honest. No nonsense.

And if you knew him, you probably knew exactly what I mean.

Larry Kea was born on September 29, 1956, in Greenville, Texas, to Harold Bennie Kea and Ruth LaVerne Banks. He grew up in a family that instilled in him a strong sense of loyalty and duty — qualities that would define him throughout his life.

As a young man, Larry proudly served his country in the United States Army. He joined as the Vietnam War was coming to a close, stepping forward to serve during a time when many young men were being called to do the same. Somehow, Larry managed to land what many of us would call the dream duty station: Hawaii.

Knowing Larry, I’m sure he found a way to enjoy that assignment.

When his service ended and he returned home, Larry continued dedicating his life to helping others. He joined the Greenville Fire Department, where he served the community for 32 years. Over those three decades he earned the respect of the people he worked with and the community he protected, eventually retiring with honor as an Engineer.

Service wasn’t something Larry talked about much. It was just something he did.

But if you knew him well, you understood how deeply loyalty and responsibility ran in his character.

Now Larry wasn’t a man who spent a lot of time sugar-coating things.

If you asked his opinion, you got it — straight and to the point. He could sometimes lean toward being a bit of a pessimist, and he’d be the first to admit it. But the upside of that was you always knew exactly where you stood with him.

Larry was a true “no BS” kind of guy.

One of his favorite sayings was, “Get off my grass.”

Every time he said it, we’d both laugh.

Truth is, that attitude rubbed off on me a little over the years. I find myself becoming more like that guy these days.

Before I ever met Larry, he had already packed a lot of living into his life.

He raced his drag car as part of the “Beat the Heat” program — a group that combined racing with community outreach, encouraging young people to stay out of trouble and make good choices. It was a way for Larry to combine his love of speed with something meaningful.

He also enjoyed fishing trips to Mexico with his buddies and had plenty of stories about those adventures.

But the Larry I knew best was the one I spent weekends with.

Twice a year we’d head to NASCAR races. At first it was just a race weekend here and there. But eventually those trips turned into full extended weekends.

We’d set up camp, enjoy the races, and spend evenings sitting around a fire giving each other grief about our favorite drivers. There were plenty of laughs, plenty of stories, and occasionally a little too much whiskey.

And one thing about Larry — the man loved to cook.

Especially breakfast.

He didn’t just make breakfast. He made breakfast. Full spread. Eggs, meat, everything you could want.

And yes… biscuits included.

Eventually our adventures moved from racetracks to motorcycles.

And we didn’t just ride around town.

We rode everywhere.

One trip took us to North Carolina where we sampled some incredible moonshine — the kind that came straight from a still in the same barn we slept in that weekend.

We rode the legendary Tail of the Dragon, a stretch of mountain road famous for its 312 curves in just 11 miles.

When it came time to head home, I assumed we’d just go back the way we came.

Larry looked at me and said, “Oh hell no.”

So we found a scenic route back to Nashville instead.

That was Larry’s philosophy on the road — and maybe on life too.

Take the scenic route.

Over the years we rode to the Lone Star Bike Rally in Galveston. We rode through Bandera and tackled the Three Sisters, one of the best motorcycle rides in Texas — the kind where warning signs remind you how unforgiving the road can be.

We rode all the way to Sturgis and back.

We rode Colorado’s Million Dollar Highway, where the mountain views are incredible and the drop-offs don’t have guardrails.

Looking back, it wasn’t just about the roads we traveled.

It was the time spent along the way.

Pool parties with friends. Watching sunsets and sunrises on the beach in Galveston year after year. Laughing, telling stories, and just enjoying the moment.

Larry lived life with a spirit of adventure and a love for the open road. He rode both Harley and Indian motorcycles and found freedom in every mile.

But even more important than the road was his family.

Larry is survived by his daughter, Misti Hayes and her husband Danny; his son, Shane Kea and his wife Stephanie; and his four grandchildren: Ty Hoffmann and his wife Avery, Landyn Kea, Faith Batson, and Presley Batson. He was also blessed with a great-granddaughter, Chesney Hoffmann.

He is also survived by his mother, Ruth Banks; his brothers Marvin Kea and Jerry Kea (Donna); and several nieces and nephews.

He was preceded in death by his father, Harold Kea, and his sister, Brenda Robinson.

Larry will be remembered for his dedication, his loyalty, and his love for family.

For me personally, I was lucky to call him my friend for twenty years.

I’ve never known anyone quite like him.

Behind that direct, no-nonsense personality was someone who cared deeply about the people in his life.

Larry loved the road — the freedom of riding, the adventure of the journey, and the stories you gather along the way.

And when I think about him now, I imagine him on one more ride.

Open road ahead.
No traffic.
No worries.

Just the wind… and the miles.

I was lucky to ride beside him for part of that journey.

Until we meet again down the road, my Brother.