Story

“They said no motorcycles at Dad’s funeral. Said it would be ‘disruptive’ and ‘inappropriate’ for their establishment.” My mother’s hands were shaking as she hung up the phone with Riverside Funeral Home. I watched the color drain from her face as she continued. “Michael, your father planned this for twenty years. His whole club was…

I was finally going to sell my father’s “death trap” after his stroke. The doctors said he’d never ride again, and at 76, it was time he accepted reality. That ancient Harley had been nothing but trouble – the reason Mom left us, the excuse for every missed school event, the endless Sunday mornings I…

I declared my father-in-law mentally incompetent to sell off his motorcycle collection. That stubborn old biker was eighty-three, still riding his Harley through mountain passes, still refusing to move into assisted living despite falling twice last month. It was easier than I expected – just a few doctor’s appointments where I did all the talking,…

They made me take off my military motorcycle vest at my own grandson’s funeral because the pastor said it was “inappropriate for a house of God.” Forty years of wearing those patches with pride, including the one that said “KIA – Afghanistan 2021 – SGT Jake Morrison – Beloved Grandson” that I’d added just three…

Diesel’s mind raced. Last week… Snake had stopped by to drop off a part for a customer’s bike. Snake had a record from a bar fight thirty years ago, before he got sober and turned his life around. But on paper, he was a felon. “The children were at school,” Diesel said carefully. “He was…

“You’re a pathetic old man who has no business riding a motorcycle,” the department-store doctor announced, staring at my medical chart without even bothering to look me in the eye. I’d gone in for a simple physical required by my insurance company, but the moment this 30-something physician saw my age – 72 – and…

Diesel Spellman adopted and raised his sister’s triplets after she passed away during childbirth. But five years later, the triplets’ bio father showed up to reclaim the children – armed with a social worker who believed no biker should raise kids. “Breathe, breathe. It’s all going to be okay,” Thomas “Diesel” Spellman gently told his…

The leather-clad animals were back, trying to force their way into my ICU to see their “brother.” Twenty-eight years as head nurse, and I’d kept every single one of these so-called bikers out of my ward. Didn’t matter that visiting hours had started or that the patient kept asking for them. ICU rules were clear:…

“A motorcycle mechanic with a criminal record has no business raising three innocent children,” the social worker stated coldly, not even looking up from her clipboard. “These boys need stability, not some biker uncle who probably deals drugs on the side.” My sister Amy had died giving birth to triplets five years ago, and I’d…

I came back home to see my furniture on the road. After two weeks fighting for my life in the ICU, the taxi dropped me at my house to find everything I owned scattered across my lawn like trash. My late wife’s rocking chair sat in a puddle. My Harley parts collection – fifty years…

“Your grandpa’s just a dirty criminal on a loud bike,” Jason sneered as he shoved me into the lockers for the third time this week. The metal hurt my spine, but not as much as hearing someone talk about Grandpa Joe like that. They’d been doing this ever since Career Day when I proudly told…

I buried my only son twice. Once when he was just eighteen—the Marines sent back a folded flag instead of my boy. And again last week, when I found out the military was wrong. Joey had been alive all these years. For forty-six years, I’ve lived with a ghost. His room untouched since 1975, his…

I got my 73-year-old neighbor kicked out because his Harley was “too loud” and he looked “too dangerous” for our family neighborhood. I complained to the HOA board seventeen times. Called the police twice. Even started a petition that got forty-three signatures from other neighbors who were “concerned about property values” and “safety of our…

I told my husband the doctor said he could never ride his motorcycle again after his heart surgery, but that was a lie. Dr. Morrison had actually cleared him for riding after six months, said it would be good for his mental health, even wrote it on the discharge papers. But I burned those papers…

I’ve rejected 1,847 motorcycle insurance claims in my fifteen years at Provident Insurance, and I was proud of it. Every single biker who walked through my office door got the same treatment – denial, delays, and lowball offers that insulted their intelligence. “High-risk lifestyle choices,” I’d write on every claim. “Contributed to own damages through…

“Another drug-seeking biker,” I announced to the nurses as the leather-clad man limped into my ER at 2 AM. Sixty-something, gray ponytail, worn Harley vest covered in patches, grease under his fingernails. I’d seen his type a hundred times – tough guys who crashed their bikes doing something stupid, then wanted painkillers for their “10…

The cop made my 72-year-old husband lay face-down on the asphalt in 97-degree heat, his arthritic knees grinding against the burning pavement while four squad cars blocked traffic for what they called a “routine stop.” Twenty-three minutes Harold spent there, his gray beard pressed to the road, hands cuffed behind his back as passing motorists…

“Those damn bikers don’t deserve to be here with real heroes,” I muttered to my partner as we watched a group of leather-clad veterans roll into the Veterans Day ceremony at Arlington Cemetery. Twenty-three years on the force, and I still couldn’t stand seeing motorcycle clubs at official events. Didn’t matter if they’d served –…

I’m having my 76-year-old father declared mentally incompetent as he refuses to stop riding his motorcycle despite clear signs of dementia. I fear he kills himself or someone else on that death trap he calls his “iron horse.” The neurologist said his reflexes are deteriorating a bit which happens as people age. But to me,…

My father fell off his motorcycle last week—just a minor spill in a parking lot—but I used it as the perfect excuse to finally force him to sell that death trap and act his age. At 69, he had no business straddling a Harley anyway, pretending he was still some young rebel instead of accepting…

My father died alone on the side of Highway 49 last week, sitting against his broken-down Harley in 103-degree heat, waiting for the daughter who was “too busy” to answer his calls. The coroner said he’d been there for hours, his phone showing seventeen missed calls to me over three days, all ignored because I…

I sold my 1972 Harley Shovelhead to save my wife’s life but then I found it on YouTube, being destroyed with a sledgehammer by some punk kid for views. “Watch me DESTROY this old piece of junk!” the title screamed. Two million views. Forty-seven years of memories reduced to scrap metal for internet fame. My…

Then, like an answer to a prayer I hadn’t dared to utter, I heard what might be the most beautiful sound in the world: motorcycles. Not one, but many, their combined rumble growing louder until it felt like the whole building was vibrating. Then silence. Followed by heavy footsteps in the hallway outside my apartment…