While I was attending my wife’s funeral, someone destr0yed my motorcycle in the church parking lot.
They did it simply because they disliked an elderly man in a leather vest who did not fit into their posh, country club lifestyle.
I had parked my meticulously maintained Harley Electra Glide for the service. When I returned, already distraught from losing my wife, I discovered it toppled over and heavily damaged, with a sign saying “BIKER TRASH GET OUT” pasted on it.
This was not a random event; it was personal. It came from the same “respectable” people who had pretended to care at the burial.
It all started six months ago when we relocated to Cedar Hills, a sophisticated planned community. Barbara’s disease had returned to stage four, and our previous home was too much for her to handle.
Our daughter Caroline found us a tiny house in what she described as a “nice neighborhood.” What she actually meant was “proper.” What she meant was, “No bikes.” She meant, “Dad, it’s time to change.”
I wasn’t going to change who I was at seventy-two. My 2008 Harley Electra Glide, which I nicknamed the Black Widow, had accompanied me through fifteen states and two major surgeries—and it came with us when we relocated. The issues began on the very first day.
Howard Parkman, the head of the homeowners’ association, arrived at our door before we had even unloaded. He was holding a clipboard and wearing a phony smile.
“Welcome to Cedar Hills,” he said, glancing past me at Barbara giving directions to the movers. “Just wanted to give you our community rules. Be sure to check section 12-B about transportation.”
I already knew what he meant before I looked. The rule said: “No recreational vehicles, boats, or motorcycles can be parked in driveways or where people can see them from the street.”
“My bike goes in the garage,” I told him, looking him straight in the eye. “It has for forty years.”
Howard’s smile became tighter. “That’s fine for now. Cedar Hills residents typically drive more traditional automobiles. “We have certain standards here.”
Barbara approached me and placed her hand in mine. Despite her chemo-induced weakness, her voice was strong.
“My spouse has been riding that bike since before you purchased your first car, Mr. Parkman. “It is not going anywhere.”
Howard glanced at her headscarf and backed off.
“We can talk about it another time,” he said, walking away. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
And now, that same Howard was watching from across the parking lot. The little smirk on his face said it all. He thought he’d won. Thought he’d broken the old biker.
Barbara battled illness for six months, while I dealt with the neighborhood. People reported me for making “too much noise” if I began my bike before 8 a.m. I received anonymous complaints about oil spots on my driveway (there were none—I take excellent care of it). People would leave messages on my Harley anytime I parked it outside to clean the garage.
Every time something happened, Howard would arrive with his clipboard and the same phony smile.
“Just a quick reminder about Rule 12-B,” he’d remark. “Some neighbors are worried.”
Even as she got sicker, Barbara found it kind of funny.
“They think a motorcycle is the biggest problem around here?” she’d say with a weak laugh. “Wait till I start haunting the place.”
But everything changed after Barbara passed away one Tuesday morning in October. I held her hand as she left—the woman who’d ridden thousands of miles with me, always by my side, never once asking me to change who I was.
Her funeral was on Friday. Caroline traveled in from Seattle, while Michael drove up from Texas. Our house was crowded with casseroles from the same neighbors who had recently complained about my bike.
Caroline talked sweetly that night. “Dad, maybe it’s time to consider selling the Harley.” Mom is gone. You are seventy-two. And clearly, this community does not fit that lifestyle.”
I glanced at her—my daughter, a lawyer, a mother of two, driving a practical SUV—and realized how far she’d come from the little girl who used to enjoy riding in my sidecar, wearing her tiny leather jacket.
“The bike stays,” I said. “Your mom never asked me to give it up. “Not once.”
She began saying, “But Mom’s not—” and paused, but I realized what she meant: Mom is no longer present.
“The bike stays,” I repeated, concluding the conversation.
On the morning of the funeral, I arrived at the church early to meet with the pastor.
Some folks gave me disapproving looks when they heard the engine, but I didn’t mind. Barbara would have expected me to arrive on two wheels, like I normally do.
The service was lovely. Howard and his wife attended, as did the majority of the neighbors. They said lovely things about Barbara and offered me their condolences. Howard even appeared astonished that I was wearing a suit and nodded, as if I had finally satisfied his expectations.
Then I walked outside and discovered that my motorcycle had been vandalized.
“Oh my God,” Caroline exclaimed, sprinting over. “Dad, I’m so sorry.”
I did not say anything. I merely stared at the shattered bike with the cruel words sprayed on it—which Barbara had helped me choose and care for. People around us muttered in disbelief, but I noted that few of our neighbors were astonished.
Officer Reynolds, who arrived when I called, shook his head as he prepared his report.
“Never got why people go after bikes,” according to him. “It’s cowardly.”
“This wasn’t at random,” I explained. “It was personal.”
He looked at me. “You think someone would do this at a funeral?”
I looked across the parking lot at Howard, standing with other Cedar Hills residents, clearly satisfied with what had happened.
“More than I realized,” I said.
Even though the bike was damaged, it could still run. Caroline wanted to load it into her rental car and take me home, but I said no.
“I’ve ridden through worse,” I told her.
The reality was, I needed the ride. I needed the wind, the sound of the engine, and the sensation of the bike beneath my feet. I wanted something to break through the void Barbara had left.
Back at the house, friends and family gathered for the reception. I changed out of my suit into jeans and a shirt but kept my leather vest on—the one with my Vietnam Veteran patch and the logo of the Iron Horses MC, the club I’d ridden with for years.
Howard came over while I was standing by the food table, holding a plate of untouched sandwiches.
“Terrible about your motorcycle,” he said, though he didn’t sound like he meant it. “Maybe it’s a sign to think about something more… fitting for Cedar Hills.”
I looked him in the eye. “The only sign I see is that someone here’s a coward who damaged my bike during a funeral.”
He turned red. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Never said you did,” I said. “But whoever did should know something about me.”
“What’s that?” he asked, clearly curious.
“I’ve buried my wife, my parents, and sixteen brothers I rode with. I’ve got nothing left to lose.” I leaned in. “And I always find out who’s done me wrong.”
