I never thought I’d face eviction at 72 years old just for being an “intimidating old biker,” but after 40 years in the same apartment building, the new corporate landlords decided my Harley in the parking lot and my leather cut and combat tattoos were “lowering property values” and “making other tenants uncomfortable.” Three tours…
“That’s Hawk. James Hawkins. Taken in 1969, near Khe Sanh. He was a helicopter medic. Flew into hot zones to evacuate wounded soldiers.” Pastor Mike’s voice was quiet. “The tattoo on his right forearm that your granddaughter was so fascinated by? It lists the names of the men from his unit who didn’t come home.”…
I hated the old bikers who started showing up at our church. These bikers (gangsters more appropriately) had no place in God’s house, especially not these gray-bearded Vietnam vets who refused to dress properly for worship or leave their sinful past behind. Every Sunday, they’d rumble into our church parking lot on their loud Harleys,…
“The hospice children,” said Catherine Miller, approaching our group. “The ones he fosters through the St. Michael’s program.” She gave me a strange look. “Surely you knew? It’s why he moved here—to be closer to the children’s hospital.” The world seemed to tilt beneath my feet. “What are you talking about?” “Ernest volunteers with the…
I called police upon that old biker who was a menace to our community, and I was determined to stop him before another child disappeared. Five kids had entered his house over the past year, and not one had emerged alive. Oh, he had excuses—mumbled stories about “relatives coming to get them” or “special facilities”…
I looked beyond them to the lineup of motorcycles and riders waiting silently in the street. These were men I’d written tickets to, men I’d treated with suspicion and contempt for years. Men I’d been convinced were hiding criminal activities behind their brotherhood. Yet here they were, offering help when I needed it most. Pride…
I spent twenty-three years of my career as a state trooper harassing motorcycle riders on the open highway. I pulled them over for the smallest infractions. Wrote tickets when warnings would’ve sufficed. Treated every leather vest like it hid a weapon, every group ride like it was a gang operation. I watched them through narrowed…
I rose, suddenly terrified. The Iron Horsemen stood as well, a wall of leather and resolve behind me. “We’re family,” Brick said firmly. “Whatever you need to say, you can say to all of us.” The doctor hesitated, then nodded. “Mr. Mercer is stabilizing. The medication is reducing the brain swelling, which is a positive…
I stood frozen in the doorway of my father’s hospital room, staring at the nurse who was casually throwing his prized leather vest into a garbage bag like it was medical waste. Fifty years of my father’s life – his patches, combat medals, the memorial patch for my mother – stuffed between soiled sheets and…
“Just… don’t go fast,” I say, hating the tremor in my voice. Frank doesn’t respond, just wheels a massive black motorcycle out from the back of the shop. It’s not the same one John rode—this one looks older, more imposing. He hands me a helmet. “It was John’s,” he says when I hesitate. “I kept…
I hated my father-in-law’s motorcycle more than anything in the world because it stole my husband from me. The day that old Harley crushed John beneath its weight was the day I swore I’d never forgive Frank for introducing his son to those death machines. We haven’t spoken since the funeral six years ago, where…
Caroline appeared beside us, sensing tension. “Everything okay here?” “Perfect,” I said, not breaking eye contact with Howard. “Just discussing neighborhood security with the HOA president.” Howard mumbled something about offering condolences to other guests and retreated, leaving his plate behind. “Dad,” Caroline sighed, “please don’t make enemies here. You need this community now that…
They vandalized my bike while I was at my wife’s funeral, and that too in the church parking lot. Just because they don’t want an old man in a leather vest who didn’t “fit” with their country club image. I’d parked my meticulously maintained Harley Electra Glide in the church lot during the service. But…
Not a single family member showed for my Biker Grandpa’s 80th birthday. Not even my father, his own son. I watched from across the street as Grandpa Jack sat alone at that long table, his weathered hands folded over the helmet he still carried everywhere, waiting for two hours while the waitstaff gave him pitying…
The next morning dawned clear and perfect for riding. I arrived at Grandpa’s house at 8:30 to find him already in the garage, his Harley gleaming under the lights. He’d clearly spent time getting it especially clean, the chrome catching the light like mirrors. He was dressed as requested – black jeans, polished riding boots,…
My son’s fiancée invited me to a fancy restaurant then deliberately disappeared when the $3,000 bill arrived. She wanted to embarrass me and get me arrested by the police. Just because I ruined her party by coming to meet my son on my bike in front of his friends. Actually, she never liked the fact…
I reached into my cut, past the inner pocket where I kept the folded adoption papers I’d carried every day for thirty years, to the hidden pocket sewn into the lining. From it, I withdrew something Jessica could never have anticipated: an American Express Centurion Card. The mythical black card. “Sir?” The waiter looked confused…
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking the day I put my Harley up for sale to pay off medical bills of my only daughter who was fighting cancer. But I have to make the hard choice. The “For Sale” sign I’d taped to the seat was like a knife in my chest, but Emma’s latest medical…
I was suspended one month before retirement, just because some parent spotted me at a motorcycle rally. Forty-two years I’d driven that yellow bus. Never had an accident. Never been late. Knew every child’s name, which ones needed a little extra encouragement in the morning, which ones needed a quiet word when their parents were…
“Sir, I’m going to need you to step away from the fence. Now.” The security guard’s hand hovered near his radio as I stood outside Fairfield Elementary, clutching a brown paper lunch bag. “Parents have complained,” he added, eyes avoiding mine. I’d fought in war, survived three motorcycle crashes that should’ve killed me, buried more…
The day my son refused to let me hold my own grandson was the day I finally understood what being a biker had cost me. I stood in the hospital hallway, still in my leather cut despite having washed the road grime from my hands until they were raw. My son David, looking like a…
Nobody steps up for the janitor’s kid. That’s what I learned watching from my Harley as the school emptied out that Tuesday afternoon. Through my visor, I could see young Tommy Reese backed against the chain-link fence, surrounded by four bigger boys. The same boys who’d been making his life hell since September. The same…
I found my daughter’s wedding invitation in the trash. My own flesh and blood didn’t want me walking her down the aisle because her fiancé’s family thought bikers were “dangerous criminals.” Thirty years I’d spent as a law-abiding citizen, twenty-five running a successful bike repair shop, nineteen paying for ballet lessons and college tuition. None…
Nobody expected fifty bikers at my son’s funeral. Least of all the four teenagers who put him there. I’m not a crier. Twenty-six years as a high school janitor taught me to keep my emotions locked down tight. But when that first Harley rumbled into the cemetery parking lot, followed by another, then another, until…
They laughed at my old Harley and faded leathers when I pulled into the Thunder Road Bar. “Look what rolled in from the nursing home,” one of them said, loud enough for everyone to hear. It wasn’t the first time. Won’t be the last. At 73, I’ve watched the world change around me. These days,…