“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 learned I still rode my Harley, his entire demeanor changed.
“Your reaction time is half what it used to be, your eyesight is compromised, and your risk of fatal injury is exponentially higher than a younger rider. I’m noting in your chart that you’re not fit to operate a motorcycle.”
When I tried to argue, showing him my perfect driving record and explaining I’d been riding for 54 years without a single accident, he actually chuckled. “That streak ends eventually, and at your age, it’ll be in a body bag. Do your family a favor and sell the bike before you kill yourself – or worse, someone else.”
He walked out before I could respond, but that wasn’t even the worst part.
Three days later, I found my garage door standing open, my tools untouched, but my 1984 Shovelhead – the bike I’d spent fifteen years restoring after finding it abandoned in a barn – was gone.
In its place was a handwritten note: “We did what you wouldn’t do yourself. Old men who can’t accept their limitations are dangerous to everyone. The bike’s been sold. The money’s been donated to motorcycle safety awareness. Find a hobby appropriate for your age. -Your Family”
I read that note fourteen times, hands shaking, while the blood pounded in my ears. Fifty-four years of riding, through rain and snow, through grief and joy, through war and peace – ended not by my choice, but by people who thought they knew better than me what I could handle.
But stealing a man’s bike doesn’t stop him from being a rider any more than stealing his boots stops him from being a walker. What they didn’t understand about old bikers is this: we didn’t survive this long by giving up when the road got rough.
The betrayal burned worse than any road rash I’d ever suffered. I recognized the handwriting immediately – my son-in-law, Mark, the financial advisor who’d always looked at my Harley with thinly veiled contempt. But I knew he couldn’t have acted alone. This had to involve my daughter Susan, probably my son David too. They’d been making comments for years about how I was “too old” to keep riding, how it “worried them sick” every time I took the bike out.
But to steal it? To take the one thing that had kept me sane after their mother died?
I picked up the phone to call the police, then slowly set it back down. What would I say? That my own children had stolen my motorcycle? That they’d conspired with a doctor to have me declared unfit to ride? The shame of it stuck in my throat like a bone.
Instead, I sat down at my kitchen table and did something I hadn’t done since Vietnam – I cried. Not quiet tears, but deep, guttural sobs that seemed to come from somewhere beneath my soul. That bike wasn’t just metal and chrome. It was every memory of their mother, who used to ride behind me with her arms wrapped tight around my waist. It was every long weekend trip to the mountains when life got too heavy. It was the only therapy that had ever worked for the nightmares that still came five decades after the war.
When the tears finally stopped, something else replaced them. Something harder, colder, more determined. They thought I was too old? Too weak? Too feeble to make my own decisions?
I’d show them exactly what this old man was still capable of.
My first stop was the doctor’s office. Not to argue or plead, but to get a copy of my medical records. The receptionist tried to give me the runaround until I mentioned the words “lawyer” and “age discrimination.” It’s amazing how quickly paperwork appears when legal action is mentioned.
As I suspected, the doctor had made his determination without any actual testing. His notes contained phrases like “advanced age makes motorcycle operation inadvisable” and “patient refuses to acknowledge age-appropriate limitations.” Not a single test of my reflexes, vision, or cognitive abilities – just assumptions based on my birth date.
My next stop was the DMV, where I requested a copy of my driving record. Perfect. Not even a parking ticket in the last decade. I also asked about any medical restrictions on my license. There were none – because despite what my family believed, no doctor has the authority to simply declare someone unfit to drive without proper evaluation and reporting channels.
Then I called my old friend Charlie, who’d retired from the police force five years earlier. I explained what had happened, and the line went silent for so long I thought we’d been disconnected.
“They stole your Shovelhead?” he finally asked, his voice tight with anger. “The one with the eagle paint job that you restored yourself?”
“Yes.”
“And they left a goddamn note admitting it?”
“Yes.”
He swore creatively for nearly a minute. “That’s grand theft auto, Jack. Family or not. You want me to call some of my old buddies on the force?”
I hesitated. “Not yet. I want to handle this my way first.”
“Your way meaning…?”
“Meaning I’m going to find my bike. And then I’m going to make sure my family understands exactly who they’re dealing with.”
Charlie sighed. “You know where to start looking?”
“I have some ideas. Mark’s brother owns that storage facility over on Highway 16. And they had to put it somewhere before they sold it – if they’ve actually sold it at all.”
“Want me to ride with you? I’m free all day.”
“No,” I said firmly. “This is something I need to do alone.”
After hanging up, I went to the closet and pulled out my riding boots. They were still broken in perfectly, molded to my feet from thousands of miles on the road. Next came my leather jacket – the one Susan and David had given me for my 60th birthday, before they decided I was too decrepit to ride. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I didn’t have my bike, but I did have my truck – a 1997 Ford F-150 that had seen better days but still ran like a top because I maintained it meticulously. Just like I’d maintained my Harley. Just like I’d maintained myself, despite what they thought.
The storage facility was my first stop. I’d only been there once, when Mark’s brother Ron had first opened it three years ago. A grand opening family barbecue where Ron had made several comments about how “dangerous” my “motorcycle hobby” was, and how he couldn’t understand why my children “allowed” me to keep riding at my age.
As if I needed their permission. As if being 72 made me a child again, needing supervision and guidance from people half my age.
The facility had a security gate requiring a code, but the office was open to the public. I parked and walked in, finding Ron behind the counter, scrolling through his phone. He looked up and froze when he saw me, guilt flashing across his face before he could compose himself.
“Jack,” he said carefully. “What brings you here?”
“Just wondering if you’ve seen my Harley,” I replied, keeping my voice conversational. “Seems it disappeared from my garage. Around the same time my family decided I was too old and feeble to make my own decisions.”
Ron swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do, Ron. Mark’s your brother. Susan’s your sister-in-law. Family takes care of family, right? Even when it means helping them steal a $25,000 custom motorcycle from an old man who’s too senile to know what’s good for him.”
His face flushed. “It wasn’t stealing. It was an intervention. They’re worried about you, Jack. Everyone is.”
“An intervention,” I repeated flatly. “Is that what you call breaking into someone’s home and taking their property without permission? Because the law has another name for it.”
“Nobody broke in,” he protested. “Susan has a key to your house.”
“For emergencies. Not to commit grand theft auto.”
Ron stood up, trying to look authoritative. “Look, it’s done. The bike’s been sold. They got $18,000 for it, and they donated it all to that motorcycle safety charity you’re always talking about. They thought you’d appreciate that.”
The knife twisted deeper. Eighteen thousand. My bike was worth at least twenty-five, even to a stranger. Which meant they’d sold it fast, probably to the first buyer who responded, just to get rid of it before I discovered it missing.
“Who bought it?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.
“I don’t know. Some guy Mark found online. It’s gone, Jack. And it’s better this way. What would happen to Susan and the kids if you crashed that thing? Did you ever think about that?”
I leaned across the counter, close enough that Ron took a step back. “Every single day for the past fifty-four years, I’ve ridden safely and responsibly because I understand the risks. What I don’t understand is why my family thinks they have the right to make my decisions for me. Or why they’re so convinced I’m going to crash when I never have before.”
“Statistics—” he began, but I cut him off.
“Statistics don’t know me. They don’t know that I still do fifty push-ups every morning. That I can still change my own oil and lift my own bike if it goes down. That riding is what keeps me sharp, keeps me alive.”
Ron looked away. “It’s too late anyway. The bike’s gone.”
“Nothing’s gone until I stop looking for it,” I said, turning to leave. “And Ron? You better hope I find it before I decide to file a police report naming everyone involved.”
My next stop was Susan’s house. She lived in one of those cookie-cutter subdivisions where every house looked the same and the homeowners’ association would probably have a heart attack if they saw a motorcycle parked in the driveway. Which was probably part of the problem.
She opened the door with a smile that vanished the moment she saw my expression.
“Dad,” she said cautiously. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Clearly,” I replied, walking past her into the house. “Otherwise you might have hidden the evidence better.”
The “evidence” was sitting on her dining room table – a receipt from the motorcycle safety charity acknowledging an $18,000 donation in my name. Next to it was a folder containing what appeared to be printouts of motorcycle accident statistics involving riders over 65.
Susan followed my gaze and had the grace to look embarrassed. “We were going to tell you. Once we knew you’d calmed down.”
“Calmed down?” I repeated incredulously. “You stole my motorcycle, Susan. You conspired with your husband and that quack doctor to have me declared incompetent. And you expected me to calm down?”
“We didn’t steal it,” she protested, using the same language Ron had used. “We made a difficult decision to keep you safe. The doctor said—”
“The doctor spent exactly seven minutes with me and never performed a single test of my abilities,” I interrupted. “He made assumptions based solely on my age, which is not only unethical but possibly illegal.”
“Dad, be reasonable. You’re 72 years old. Your reflexes aren’t what they used to be. Your eyesight—”
“Is 20/30 with my glasses, which is better than most 40-year-olds. My reflexes are just fine. My blood pressure is perfect. I can still read the fine print on contracts without help, which is how I know what you did constitutes grand theft auto.”
Susan’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t report us to the police.”
“Why not? You didn’t think twice about stealing from me.”
“It wasn’t stealing!” she insisted, her voice rising. “It was protecting you from yourself! Do you have any idea what it’s like for us? Worrying every time you take that death trap out? Waiting for the phone call telling us you’ve been killed or paralyzed?”
I looked at my daughter – really looked at her. The worry lines around her eyes were new. The gray streaking her hair hadn’t been there last Christmas. For the first time, I considered that her actions, misguided as they were, might have come from a place of genuine fear.
It didn’t excuse what she’d done. But it helped me understand it.
“Susan,” I said, my voice softer, “I know you think you were protecting me. But you weren’t. You were taking away the one thing that still makes me feel alive. The one connection I still have to your mother.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Mom would be worried sick about you riding at your age.”
I shook my head. “No, she wouldn’t. Your mother understood what riding meant to me. Why do you think she kept getting on the back of the bike until her arthritis got too bad? She knew that for some people, including me, riding isn’t just transportation or recreation. It’s therapy. It’s freedom. It’s the only thing that quiets the noise in my head sometimes.”
Susan blinked. “What noise?”
I sighed heavily. I’d never told my children much about Vietnam. About the things I’d seen and done. About the nightmares that still came, five decades later.
“The memories,” I said simply. “The ones that don’t fade, no matter how many years pass. When I’m on the bike, focused on the road, on the wind, on the engine beneath me – those memories can’t catch me. For a little while, at least, I’m free of them.”
Susan stared at me as if seeing me for the first time. “You never told us.”
“You never asked. You just decided I was a stubborn old man clinging to a dangerous hobby. You never considered that riding might be what’s kept me sane all these years.”
She sat down heavily, the fight going out of her. “I still think it’s dangerous.”
“Life is dangerous, Susan. Getting out of bed is dangerous at my age – more older adults die from falls in their homes than motorcycle accidents. Should I stay in bed all day to be safe?”
“That’s different,” she muttered, but without conviction.
“No, it’s not. It’s about assessing risks and making informed choices. It’s about quality of life versus quantity. And it’s about respect – respecting that I’m still capable of making my own decisions, even if you don’t agree with them.”
We sat in silence for a long moment before Susan finally spoke again. “The buyer lives in Riverdale. Some lawyer who collects vintage Harleys. Mark handled the sale.”
Relief flooded through me. Riverdale was only about an hour away. “I want his name and number.”
“Dad, the sale’s final. He paid cash.”
“Susan,” I said firmly, “you sold stolen property. That makes the sale fraudulent, no matter how you try to justify it. Now, you can give me his information, or I can file a police report and let them track him down. Your choice.”
She must have seen the determination in my eyes because she got up without another word and went to get her husband’s phone. A few minutes later, she handed me a piece of paper with a name and number.
“Richard Coleson,” I read aloud. “Attorney at Law.”
“He seemed nice,” Susan offered weakly. “Said he’d take good care of the bike.”
“I’m sure he will,” I replied, standing up. “Right up until I show up with proof of ownership and the threat of a stolen property charge.”
Susan’s eyes widened. “You’re going to confront him? Dad, he’s a lawyer!”
“And I’m a Vietnam veteran who’s had his prized possession stolen by his own family,” I countered. “I think I can handle one lawyer.”
As I headed for the door, Susan called after me. “Dad, wait. We really thought we were doing the right thing. We were scared for you.”
I turned back to look at her. “I know you were, Susan. That’s the only reason I’m not pressing charges against you, Mark, and everyone else involved in this. But make no mistake – if I don’t get my bike back, that will change.”
“And if you do get it back?” she asked hesitantly.
“Then we’re going to have a long conversation about boundaries, respect, and the difference between caring about someone and controlling them.”
The drive to Riverdale gave me time to cool down and think. I understood my family’s fears, even if I couldn’t forgive their actions yet. I’d lost friends to motorcycle accidents over the years. I’d attended memorial rides and seen the aftermath of crashes. I wasn’t naive about the risks.
But risk was part of living. Always had been, always would be. And at 72, I was far more afraid of existing without really living than I was of dying while doing what I loved.
Richard Coleson’s house was exactly what you’d expect from a successful attorney – large, imposing, with a circular driveway and meticulously landscaped grounds. And there, sitting in the open garage, was my Shovelhead.
Even from the street, I could see it was undamaged. The custom eagle paint job gleamed in the afternoon sun, the chrome still polished to a mirror finish. I’d spent countless hours on that bike, restoring every part, upgrading what needed upgrading, preserving what made it special. Seeing it in someone else’s garage felt like finding another man in my bedroom.
I parked my truck and walked up the driveway, my riding boots crunching on the gravel. Before I could reach the front door, a man emerged from the garage – tall, silver-haired, maybe in his early sixties. He was wearing expensive-looking casual clothes and wiping his hands on a shop rag.
“Can I help you?” he called out, his tone pleasant but cautious.
“That’s my motorcycle,” I said without preamble, pointing to the Shovelhead.
Richard Coleson’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”
“The ’84 Shovelhead in your garage. It’s mine. It was stolen from me and sold to you without my knowledge or consent.”
To his credit, Coleson didn’t immediately dismiss me or get defensive. He looked from me to the bike and back again, his expression thoughtful.
“You’re saying the man who sold it to me didn’t own it?”
“I’m saying my son-in-law took it from my garage while I was out and sold it to you under the guise of protecting me from myself. Because apparently, at 72, I’m too decrepit to ride safely anymore.”
Understanding dawned in Coleson’s eyes. “You’re Jack. The owner he mentioned who was ‘giving up riding due to health concerns.'”
“My health is fine,” I said firmly. “And I wasn’t giving up anything. They took that choice from me.”
Coleson was quiet for a moment, studying me. Then he surprised me by gesturing toward the garage. “Would you like to come in and sit down? I think we need to talk about this.”
I followed him into the garage, which was more like a showroom. Five other vintage motorcycles were arranged in a semicircle, each one immaculate, each one displayed with obvious pride. In the center of it all was my Shovelhead, looking both at home and out of place.
Coleson pulled up two shop stools. “I’m 63,” he said without preamble. “Started riding when I was 17. My kids have been trying to get me to ‘act my age’ for the past decade.” He nodded toward my bike. “When I saw this Shovelhead for sale, the story I got was that the owner – you – had finally listened to reason and was giving up riding for safety’s sake. I should have been more suspicious.”
“Why weren’t you?” I asked.
He smiled ruefully. “Because I wanted to believe it was a legitimate sale. The bike is beautiful – your restoration work is impeccable. And the price was well below market value.”
“Eighteen thousand,” I said. “It’s worth at least twenty-five.”
“More like thirty to the right buyer,” Coleson corrected. “Which is another reason I should have known something wasn’t right. No real rider sells a bike like this for that price unless they’re desperate or don’t know what they have. And from the condition of it, you clearly knew exactly what you had.”
I felt a wave of gratitude that my bike had at least ended up with someone who appreciated it. “So where do we go from here?”
Coleson sighed. “Legally, you’re right. If the bike was taken without your consent, I’ve purchased stolen property. The sale isn’t valid.” He looked at the Shovelhead with undisguised longing. “Damned shame, though. It’s a beautiful machine.”
“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “I found it in a barn in Kentucky. Previous owner had died, and his family was just going to scrap it. Took me fifteen years to restore it, piece by piece.”
“Fifteen years,” Coleson repeated softly. “That’s not just a restoration. That’s a relationship.”
I nodded, surprised and touched by his understanding. “Exactly.”
He was quiet for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “I’ll return the bike to you, of course. I’ll need to deal with your son-in-law about the money, but that’s not your problem.”
Relief washed over me, so powerful I had to grip the edge of the stool to steady myself. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me for doing the right thing,” he said with a wave of his hand. “But before you go…” He hesitated. “Would you tell me about it? The restoration process? The history? I’d like to hear the story, even if the bike isn’t mine to keep.”
So I told him. About finding the Shovelhead abandoned and neglected. About the parts I’d salvaged and the ones I’d fabricated myself when originals couldn’t be found. About the eagle paint job – designed by my late wife, who’d always said I was like an eagle, needing to soar above the everyday world to truly be myself.
As I talked, I could see Coleson’s respect growing – not just for the bike, but for me. For the knowledge and skill evident in every aspect of the restoration. For the passion that still burned bright despite my age.
When I finished, he stood up and walked to a cabinet at the back of the garage. “I think this calls for something special,” he said, pulling out a bottle of expensive-looking bourbon and two glasses. “If you’re allowed alcohol with your medications, that is.”
The gentle mockery in his tone made me smile. “I take a multivitamin and occasional ibuprofen for my knee. Nothing that precludes good bourbon.”
He poured two fingers into each glass and handed one to me. “To riders who refuse to let age dictate their passions,” he said, raising his glass.
I clinked my glass against his. “And to people who do the right thing, even when it costs them.”
As we sipped the bourbon – which was indeed excellent – Coleson looked thoughtful. “You know, I have a proposition for you. I’m part of a group called the Silver Eagles. We’re all riders over 60 who refuse to hang up our helmets just because society thinks we should. We do charity rides, safety advocacy, and sometimes just get together to remind each other that we’re not too old for the wind in our faces.”
“Sounds like my kind of people,” I admitted.
“Our next meeting is this Saturday. Ride with us. Bring your family – make them see that you’re not alone in this, that there are plenty of capable older riders out there living life on their own terms.”
The idea was appealing. Let Susan and Mark see that I wasn’t some anomaly, some stubborn old fool refusing to acknowledge reality. Let them meet other riders my age and older who were still safe, still capable, still living rather than just existing.
“I might do that,” I said. “But first, I need to get this beauty home where she belongs.”
Coleson nodded. “Of course. Do you need help loading it into your truck, or…” He trailed off, looking at me uncertainly.
I understood his hesitation. He was trying to be respectful, not assuming I couldn’t ride the bike home myself, but also not wanting to put me in a difficult position if I wasn’t up to it.
“I’ll ride it home,” I said firmly. “It’s only an hour, and the weather’s perfect.”
Relief crossed his face. “Good. That’s what I hoped you’d say.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out the title he’d received from Mark, along with a bill of sale. “Let’s void this transaction properly, so you don’t have any legal issues down the road.”
As we completed the paperwork that would return my bike to me legally as well as physically, I felt a weight lifting from my shoulders. But there was still the matter of my family – the betrayal, the lack of respect, the assumption that they knew better than I did what was right for me.
“What will you do about them?” Coleson asked, as if reading my mind. “Your family, I mean.”
I sighed. “I’m still figuring that out. Part of me wants to cut them off completely for what they did. But they’re still my family. They were wrong – criminally wrong – but I believe they thought they were protecting me.”
“Fear makes people do terrible things,” he agreed. “Even to those they love. Maybe especially to those they love.”
“The problem is, they still don’t understand. They still think I’m being reckless and stubborn, refusing to acknowledge limitations that they’ve decided I have.”
Coleson smiled slightly. “Then show them. Don’t tell them, show them. Bring them to the Silver Eagles meeting. Let them see eighty-year-olds who still ride cross-country every summer. Let them meet neurosurgeons and pilots and judges who still ride in their seventies. People whose mental acuity and physical capabilities can’t be questioned.”
It was good advice. Better than my original plan of simply asserting my independence and demanding respect. Some things had to be demonstrated, not just declared.
“I’ll do that,” I decided. “After they apologize for theft and invasion of privacy.”
Coleson laughed. “That seems like a reasonable prerequisite.”
We shook hands, and I swung my leg over my Shovelhead for the first time in days. The familiar contours of the seat, the position of the handlebars, the weight of the machine beneath me – it felt like coming home.
As I rode away from Coleson’s house, I thought about what I would say to Susan and Mark and everyone else involved in taking my bike. The anger was still there, but it had cooled from a raging inferno to a steady flame – one that would fuel change rather than just destruction.
They had thought they were saving me from myself, protecting me from risks they deemed unacceptable. What they didn’t understand was that, at 72, the greatest risk wasn’t dying – it was not truly living in whatever time I had left.
The wind rushed past me as I opened the throttle, feeling the power of the engine vibrating through my body. This wasn’t just transportation. This was freedom. This was therapy. This was life itself.
And no one – not doctors, not family, not well-meaning friends – had the right to take that away from me until I decided I was ready to give it up.
Which, if the road ahead was kind, wouldn’t be for many thousands of miles yet.
