Alan Alda Was Forgetting Who He Used to Be
So Mike Farrell Brought Hawkeye Back, One Last Ride at Dawn
Alan Alda was beginning to forget things.
Not the big moments.
The small ones.
The quiet details that make life feel familiar and personal.
January 2026. Los Angeles.
Alan Alda was 89 years old.
In just eight days, he would turn 90.
The man the world knew as Hawkeye Pierce, quick-witted, brave, endlessly sharp, now lived inside a gentle haze.
Parkinson’s had slowly taken its toll.
First, his hands.
The same hands that once performed surgery on MAS*H for eleven unforgettable years now shook without permission.
Then his walk.
Once easy and confident.
Now cautious, deliberate, uncertain.
And now, his memories.
They were not completely gone.
Just slipping away.
Like photographs left too long in sunlight, still visible, but harder to feel.
Mike Farrell kept coming anyway.
Every week.
For five years.
Because that is what B.J. Hunnicutt would have done.
And that is who Mike Farrell was.
He found Alan in the living room that day.
Seated in his favorite chair.
Holding something tightly.
A photograph.
Alan’s fingers moved slowly across it, over and over, as if it might vanish the moment he stopped touching it.
Mike leaned closer, his chest tightening.
It was a picture of them.
1983.
The final episode.
“Goodbye, Farewell and Amen.”
B.J. on the motorcycle.
Hawkeye riding behind him.
Smiling.
Their last ride away from the war.
“Hey, Alan.”
Confusion crossed Alan’s face first.
Then recognition.
“Mike.”
A small smile appeared.
But it was real.
“You came.”
“I always do.”
Alan raised the photograph.
“I remember this.”
“You do?”
“The cameras. The crew. The bike.”
He stopped, searching for words.
Then his voice cracked.
“But I don’t remember how it felt.”
“I remember that it happened,” Alan said softly.
“But I don’t remember the wind.
The freedom.”
He looked at Mike.
“I’ve lost the feeling.”
Tears followed.
“I’m losing myself, Mike.”
Mike took his trembling hand.
“You’re still here.”
Alan whispered back, “Not to me.”
“I forgot Arlene’s birthday. Sixty-eight years. I forgot.”
Silence filled the room.
The kind of silence that hurts.
That night, Mike could not sleep.
“I don’t remember how it felt.”
The words stayed with him.
At 3:00 a.m., Mike stood in his garage.
Under a dusty cover sat a motorcycle.
Untouched for years.
Because every time he looked at it, he saw Alan.
He saw 1983.
The final ride.
He cleaned it.
Polished it.
Checked the engine.
His body ached.
His heart did not care.
At 5:30 a.m., he pulled into Alan Alda’s driveway.
The house was dark.
Quiet.
Then Mike’s voice cut through the early morning air.
“HAWKEYE!”
“YOU’RE TOO SLOW!”
Lights came on.
Arlene appeared at the door.
Then Alan.
Confused.
Until he saw Mike.
Sitting on the motorcycle.
And suddenly, Alan smiled.
Big.
Genuine.
Alive.
“B.J., you’re crazy!”
“I know!”
It took fifteen minutes.
Slow steps.
Careful movements.
Alan insisted.
“I need this.”
They helped him onto the bike.
Just like they had in 1983.
“Ready?” Mike asked.
“Ready.”
They rode.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Two old men greeting the sunrise.
Alan held on tightly.
Not casually like before.
But with purpose.
Like this moment mattered.
Like it might be everything.
“Mike,” Alan said softly, his face against Mike’s back.
“I remember now.”
“Remember what?”
“How it feels.”
The wind.
The movement.
The freedom.
For one hour, Hawkeye was back.
When they returned, Arlene was crying.
Alan’s eyes were clear.
“I remembered,” he said.
That night, Alan fell asleep holding the old photograph.
Beside it was a new one.
2026.
The same pose.
The same smiles.
Older faces.
Still together.