While I was inside saying goodbye to my wife for the last time, someone decided that was the moment to destroy my motorcycle.
It happened right there in the church parking lot—my Harley Electra Glide, a bike I’ve ridden across 15 states, was knocked over and vandalized. A crude sign was taped to it: “BIKER TRASH GET OUT.”
Whoever did it wasn’t just lashing out randomly. It was a message—from people who couldn’t stand the sight of an old man in a leather vest who didn’t fit into their polished, picture-perfect neighborhood.
We’d only moved to Cedar Hills six months earlier. My wife, Barbara, was battling cancer—again—and we needed a smaller place, something easier on her. Our daughter found us a house in what she called “a nice community.” That turned out to mean “a place where people whisper behind your back if you ride a motorcycle.”
I’m 72. I’ve been riding for over four decades. My bike, the Black Widow, came with me. It was never up for debate.
But Cedar Hills had rules. Howard Parkman, head of the homeowners’ association, showed up before we’d even unpacked.
“Be sure to check section 12-B about transportation,” he said, smiling like a salesman who’d just been stiffed on commission.
I already knew what that rule said: no motorcycles parked in view. I told him it would be in the garage like it always had been. That didn’t satisfy him.
Barbara, frail from chemo but never one to back down, stood beside me and said, “My husband’s been riding that bike since before you had a license, Mr. Parkman. It’s not going anywhere.”
Howard backed off—for the moment.
The months that followed were constant battles. Noise complaints, false reports about oil leaks, notes left on my bike when I dared to park it outside. Every time, Howard would show up, clipboard in hand, with his condescending grin.
Through it all, Barbara never complained. Even laughed about it.
“They think a motorcycle’s the biggest issue here?” she’d say. “Just wait till I start haunting this place.”
Barbara passed away on a Tuesday morning in October. I was there, holding her hand. She never once asked me to give up my bike, or change who I was—not once.
On the day of her funeral, I rode to the church early to meet the pastor. The engine turned a few heads, but I didn’t care. Barbara would’ve wanted me to arrive the way I always did: on two wheels.
The service was beautiful. Neighbors came. Even Howard and his wife. They said the right things, wore the right expressions. Pretended.
Then I walked outside—and saw my Harley on its side. The damage was obvious. The sign, even more so.
Caroline, my daughter, ran to my side. “Dad, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
I couldn’t speak. Just stared. Barbara helped me choose that bike. She loved that bike.
Officer Reynolds took the report. “People do this kind of thing, it’s cowardly,” he said.
“This wasn’t random,” I told him.
He looked up from his notepad. “You think someone would do this at a funeral?”
I looked across the lot at Howard, standing smugly with a group of neighbors. I didn’t have to answer. My silence said everything.
The bike was banged up, but it still ran. Caroline wanted me to let her load it in her car. I refused.
“I’ve ridden through worse,” I told her. What I didn’t say: I needed that ride. I needed the wind. The noise. The escape.
Back at the house, I changed into jeans and my vest—leather, worn, stitched with the Iron Horses MC patch and my Vietnam service badge.
Howard approached me at the reception, plate in hand, pretending sympathy.
“Terrible about your bike,” he said, tone dripping with suggestion. “Maybe it’s time to think about something more fitting for Cedar Hills.”
I looked him straight in the eye.
“The only thing I see is someone in this neighborhood is a coward. Someone vandalized my motorcycle during a funeral.”
He flushed. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Never said you did,” I said. “But whoever did it should know this—”
He waited.
“I’ve buried my wife. My parents. Sixteen brothers I rode with. I’ve got nothing left to lose. And I always find out who’s done me wrong.”
He didn’t have a comeback. Just turned and walked away.
So no, I’m not changing. Not for them. Not for this place. And definitely not because some gutless vandal thought a funeral was the time to take a shot.
The bike stays.
