During what the police dubbed a “routine stop,” four squad cars blocked traffic while my 72-year-old husband was forced to lie face-down on the tarmac in 97-degree heat, his arthritic knees grinding into the blazing concrete.
Harold was there for twenty-three minutes, his grey beard pressed to the road, his hands tied behind his back, as passing cars halted to stare at the “dangerous biker” who was being detained. I overheard a woman instruct her children to “look at the criminal” as my husband, a Bronze Star recipient who served two tours in Vietnam, cooked like roadkill on the concrete. The same pipes that had passed inspection only two weeks before were the reason his motorcycle’s exhaust was “too loud.”
Officer Kowalski, the young police officer, kept his boot close to Harold’s head the entire time, periodically prodding him when he attempted to move to ease the pain in his knees. His voice was loud enough for the assembling audience to hear him say, “Stay down, old man.” Older motorcyclists believe they own the roads. Time you learnt something new from someone.
Harold’s hands were shaking as he struggled to keep his dignity as his face was scorched from the asphalt when they eventually allowed him to stand. My husband of 48 years broke down like I had never seen him before when Kowalski moved up close, away from the dash cams, and said something.
Harold simply glanced at the wall when I asked him later what the cop had said, saying, “He said guys like me don’t belong on the roads anymore.” claimed that in order to prevent harm to anyone, it was time to hang up.
I made the decision that I needed to employ my powers at that moment. I could either save my husband’s soul or ruin our marriage with what I did next. However, I had to first determine if I was the obedient wife they had anticipated or the woman who once
My name is Nancy, and I must inform you of what they did to Harold. Harold would sooner die than be “that guy.” I’m telling you this because what occurred that day damaged something inside the toughest man I’ve ever known, and I’ll be damned if I let it stand. It’s not because I want sympathy or because we’re going to sue.
Harold’s not a weekend warrior who got a bike in the middle of his life. His father taught him how to ride an old Indian when he was sixteen years old, after returning from Korea. His motorbike abilities saved lives while delivering communications into enemy territory during his two deployments in Vietnam. He rode to the hospital when each of our three children was born, to our wedding, and to their funerals when our son died in Afghanistan.
It’s more than simply a machine, that bike in our garage. It’s Harold’s link to every mile he’s covered, every storm he’s endured, and every brother he’s shared a journey with who is no longer with him. And a three-year veteran punk with a badge attempted to subtly undermine it.
Like any other morning, it began that morning. Due to an issue with his liver enzymes from the Agent Orange exposure, Harold was on his way to the VA hospital for his monthly exam. When the weather permits, he always rides because he claims the breeze helps dispel the fog caused by all the drugs he is taking.
When the sirens sounded, I was in the kitchen. I didn’t give it much thought because emergency vehicles frequently pass by where we live, which is close to the major road. But after two hours, Harold hadn’t returned home, so I became concerned. He never keeps appointments that long.
The door was then knocked on by Janet, our neighbour. She had a pallid complexion and was holding her phone tightly.
“I think you should watch this, Nancy,” she remarked, displaying a video that her teenage son had taken.
On the hot tarmac, Harold lay face down, encircled by police vehicles. He had positioned his bike at an angle, as if he had had to stop abruptly. He was surrounded by four officers, one with his knee on Harold’s back and the others with their hands on their rifles.
My hands went shaky as I saw my husband, who had a Bronze Star, had raised three children and buried one, and had never received a speeding ticket in his fifty years of riding, being handled like a regular criminal.
Janet whispered, “That was forty minutes ago.” Every child is posting about it. They are referring to it as police brutality.
I snatched up my keys and drove aggressively to the location where Janet claimed it occurred. When I got there, Harold was sitting on the curb, still surrounded by police but without handcuffs. Sweat soaked through his vest, which housed his military patches and the ’22 a Day’ ribbon for veteran suicide awareness, and his face was flushed from the heat and exercise.
One of the officers stated, “Ma’am, you must remain back,” as I walked up.
I yelled, “That’s my husband,” and pushed past him. Are you alright, Harold? “
The emotion on his face almost made me cry when he glanced up at me. Disgrace, suffering, and, more importantly, failure.
Quietly, he said, “I’m fine, Nan.” Too silently. One of the things that made me fall in love with Harold was the way his voice always boomed.
What took place? What made them—
“His exhaust surpasses the permissible decibel level,” the youthful inspector cut in. Police officer Kowalski, badge number 4782. Never will I forget it. “Several complaints were received by us.”
“From whom? “I insisted.” This is the route he takes each month. There has never been a complaint before.
The cop gave a shrug. Anonymous advice. They were three this morning.
I understood the purpose of this right away. At a municipal council meeting last week, Harold had testified against the proposed “motorcycle noise ordinance,” which was a flimsy attempt to deter bikers from utilising specific town roadways. He had been articulate and impassioned as he described how riding was a source of calm for many veterans and how the motorbike community helped out local charities and businesses.
Additionally, he had embarrassed the mayor’s son, who had been advocating for the ordinance after purchasing a home on Main Street and learning—shock of shocks—that Main Street sees traffic.
Because of the noisy pipes, you threw him to the ground? I asked, raising my voice. A veteran of seventy-two? “
According to Officer Kowalski, who seemed to be reading from a script, “He failed to immediately comply with instructions.” “We did as we were told.”
“The conflict has left him largely deaf! “I fired back.” He has it in his VA file. Most likely, he couldn’t hear you clearly.
The cops looked at one another. They had been unaware. They hadn’t, of course. When they spotted an elderly motorcyclist, they assumed.
They gave Harold a warning after another hour of “processing,” which apparently involved a lot of standing about and radio calls. He received a “verbal warning” concerning his exhaust but no ticket or arrest. It was the same exhaust that fourteen days prior had passed state inspection.
Harold’s bike trailed behind me on the drive home, and he was quiet. As I observed him in the rearview mirror, I saw that he was riding more cautiously, as if he was worried about being noticed.
He barely touched his food during dinner that night, and I found him in the garage after he had showered. Staring at his bike while sitting there.
“Want to discuss it? As I pulled up another carton, I enquired.
He was silent for so long that I assumed he wouldn’t respond. Then: “Kowalski. the child. He grabbed me aside once they let me up and you had gone to retrieve the car.
“What was it he said? “
Harold’s hands tensed and relaxed. Men like me, they said, no longer belong on the roadways. stated that in order to prevent harm to anyone, it was time to hang up. “Next time….,” he trailed off.
What will happen next time? “
The next time, they would discover something that would adhere. stated, “If they look hard enough, there’s always something.”
Between us hovered the actual and unsightly threat. Both of us understood his meaning. Grow something. “Find” a violation. Make things so hard for Harold that he would quit riding.
I said, “You must not allow them to win.” “You are who you are.”
Harold’s three words, “Maybe he’s right,” struck me like a blow to the body. “I might be too old. It might be time.
Using his entire name, as I often did when our children were in danger, I said, “Harold Eugene Mitchell.” It’s been fifty-six years since you started riding. You have made it through Agent Orange, Vietnam, cancer, and Bobby’s death. Are you going to let a punk police officer who was most likely in nappies on 9/11 tell you who you are? “
At that, he practically grinned. Almost.
In the days that followed, I saw my husband retreat. His weekly bike with the Veterans group was skipped. The ride he had planned to conduct on Memorial Day was cancelled. In the garage, his bike sat unaltered, collecting dust for the first time since he had restored it.
However, I also began to call. The video was taken by Janet’s son. To other witnesses. To Harold’s fellow veterans who ride with him. And to my nephew, who practices civil rights law.
What I discovered infuriated me. The first wasn’t Harold. Seven additional elderly motorbike riders have been stopped, harassed and humiliated in the previous six months. After addressing that municipal council meeting, that is. They all issued warnings about their “dangerous” bikes. Two had sold their motorbikes already.
Noise wasn’t the issue here. This had to do with appearance. By evicting everyone who didn’t meet their ideal of suburban perfection, the mayor’s son and his affluent developer cronies sought to “clean up” the town’s reputation.
They chose the wrong wife to play with, though.
At first, I organised in a modest manner. Casual discussions at the grocery store and coffee with the other wives. In less than a week, I had a network of irate women who had been targeted by their spouses. By week two, we had a strategy.
I informed Harold that I was heading to the store the evening before the next city council meeting. I decided to drive to the VA hospital instead, where I had a scheduled appointment with the head of psychiatric services, Dr. Patricia Reeves.
“Mrs. “Mitchell,” she said as she greeted me in her workspace. “Your message was received. What can I do to help? “
I described everything, including Harold’s retreat, the humiliation, the stop, and the threat. The more she spoke, the darker her face became.
How many of our patients use motorcycling as a kind of therapy? After I was done, she enquired. How many veterans find serenity while riding a motorbike? The things they did to your husband are unacceptable.
“Are you going to speak at the meeting of the city council? “I enquired. “Someone in a position of authority needs to address them.”
She did not think twice. “I will perform better than that. I will bring data. data. And perhaps a few more folks who want to express their opinions.
I was dressed up, and Harold noticed it the morning of the meeting.
Are you heading somewhere special? He enquired while having breakfast.
“City council meeting,” I remarked nonchalantly. “Want to attend? “
He shook his head. “Nan, I have finished that battle.”
I gave him a cheek kiss and replied, “That’s okay.” “But I’m not.”
Harold had no idea that everyone in his riding group was going to be there. and their spouses. As well as Dr. Reeves and a VA contingent. Additionally, my nephew had a folder filled with civil rights infractions. Additionally, Janet’s son’s video regarding police process has been altered to include legal experts’ commentary.
There were many people in the council room. Just standing room. A sea of tough faces, leather jackets, and military emblems. The mayor’s son hesitated at the sight of the gathering when he stood to deliver his enlarged noise regulation proposal.
Despite my nervousness, my voice remained firm as I spoke first.
I go by Nancy Mitchell. Harold, my husband, has spent forty years working in our town. In addition to helping to collect money for the children’s hospital and mentoring young warriors dealing with PTSD, he has volunteered at every charity ride. Your police force flung him face-down on flaming asphalt two weeks ago for the offence of cycling while elderly.
I showed my phone’s video of Janet’s son. “I have video that shows the incident. Seven more riders are willing to speak regarding harassment of this kind. And I want to ask this council: Do you want to convey this message to our community’s veterans? that choosing to ride motorcycles has no bearing on their service? “
Others talked one after the other. Dr. Reeves gave statistics about PTSD treatment using motorcycles. Veterans related how riding helped them survive. In a composed manner, my nephew described the possible legal action the city could face if the harassment persisted.
But when 85-year-old Walter “Tank” Morrison stumbled to his feet, it was the turning point. Tank, a rider on a specially modified bike, had lost both legs below the knee in Korea.
With a loud but hoarse voice, he declared, “I was born in this town.” “I fought for my country.” returned to this place to start a business and establish a family. Now you’re saying that because it annoys some newbies, I can’t ride? Would you wish your police to intimidate men like Harold Mitchell? Good men who’ve sacrificed everything? “
He stopped and steadied himself with his cane. For you, I have some news. First here was us. When you leave, we will be here. And we’ll keep riding until the Lord himself gives us the order to stop. This isn’t some inexperienced, badge-hungry newbie who believes harassment is a good cop.
Applause broke out in the chamber. The damage had already been done when the mayor gaveled for order. Janet’s son had discreetly contacted the news teams, who were recording everything.
There was a break called by the mayor. It was Officer Kowalski who came up to me during the break. Out of uniform, quite uneasy, and youthful-looking.
“Mrs. Mitchell,” he murmured. “I should apologise to you and your husband. Actually, I didn’t comprehend. According to my boss, we should send a message because these bikers were causing havoc. I never gave the true nature of them any thought.
I took a moment to examine him. “My husband no longer belongs on the roads, you told him.”
He grimaced. “I was mistaken.” Totally incorrect. I would like to personally apologise to him if you will allow me to.
Harold will have to decide that, I said. You should be aware of something, though. The man you degraded? He saved three of his teammates, earning him a Bronze Star. In his more than 500,000 miles of riding, he has never been in an accident. More than you can ever know about road safety, he has forgotten. Think about that the next time you encounter an elderly motorcyclist.
At the next meeting, the mayor discreetly stated that the proposed noise law would be removed for “further study.” He also announced a new project to bring the police and community closer together, beginning with required training on how to communicate with veterans and senior citizens.
Although it wasn’t everything, it was a beginning.
I felt both triumphant and nervous as I drove home. I was unsure about Harold’s reaction, so I hadn’t told him about any of this.
He wasn’t just sitting there when I found him in the garage this time. He had been changing the oil on his bike. It was the first repair he had performed since the tragedy.
“I heard on the news that the city council had a pretty large turnout,” he added without raising his gaze. “It looks like someone coordinated the entire riding community.”
“Oh?” With innocence, I said. “It’s nice.”
It was the first genuine laugh I had heard him make in two weeks. Tank called. claimed that my wife gave them hell. said you made him think of a drill sergeant he had known back in Korea.
“Tank overstates,” I remarked.
Harold was on his feet, using a shop rag to wipe his hands. “Dr. Reeves also called. I was also shown some video from the encounter by Walter’s son. He gathered me in an embrace, his hands smeared with grease. “Thank you.”
“I couldn’t allow them to prevail,” I mumbled against his chest. Didn’t allow them to make you feel unwelcome on those roads. Harold Mitchell, you deserve every step of the way.
Pulling back, he turned to face me. “Kowalski left a message. wants to express regret.
“How will you respond? “
This was something Harold thought about. Perhaps offer him a ride. Show him the true meaning of responsible motorcycling. The child should be educated, not retaliated.
That Harold was mine. Despite everything, I’m still considering educating instead of punishing.
So you’re not going to hang it up? “I enquired.
He looked from me to his bike and back again. “Had a weak moment.” I let the young police officer run my mind. However, you know what? I have more riding experience than he has. My name is known on these roads. Every mile has a story to tell.
He went to his bike and touched the tank with his hand. “I’ve been through too much with this machine to let a few narrow-minded individuals determine when we’re done. When I’m ready, I’ll hang it up, not when someone else says I should.
The sound of Harold’s bike starting up awakened me up the following morning. When I peered out the window, I saw him getting ready for his morning ride in full gear. To signal that Harold Mitchell was back on the road where he belonged, he gave the throttle a slight twist as he pulled out of the driveway, but not enough to be annoying.
All of the riders arrived at our place later that week. They gave Harold a new patch for his vest that read, “Too Tough to Stop.” Tank spoke about solidarity and brotherhood. In the garage, nobody was uneasy.
On the Sunday after, Officer Kowalski stopped by. To his credit, he made a sincere apology, which Harold, being Harold, took with grace. They discussed motorcycles, service, and people’s presumptions for two hours. Harold had committed to assist new cops in learning how to engage with the motorbike culture once Kowalski left.
Harold responded, “Turning enemies into allies,” when I arched an eyebrow. “Better than harbouring resentment.”
Harold led the planned Memorial Day ride six months later. In perfect formation, five hundred bikers followed him through town, their motors thundering. Officer Kowalski, who had completed the department’s new motorcycle safety training and exchanged his cruiser for a motorbike, was a member of the police escort.
To a more tranquil suburb, the mayor’s son relocated. No one ever brought up the noise rule again. What about Harold? With his eyes sparkling behind his glasses and his grey beard fluttering in the breeze, Harold continues to bike whenever he can.
Sometimes I see him sitting with his bike in the garage, not working on it, like old friends in cosy silence. Once again, the bike that nearly turned into a monument to failure is a representation of freedom, tenacity, and the unwavering spirit of a man who has earned every mile.
They attempted to convince him that he was no longer fit to drive. They were unsuccessful. For riders like Harold, who have sacrificed everything and received little in return, don’t give up easy. When given the proper support, they can bounce back stronger than before, even though they may bend under stress or have periods of uncertainty.
And if someone tries to correct them? They’ll have to start with wives like me, though. And believe me, we’re more resilient than we appear.
For those who have earned their kilometres via sweat, sacrifice, and unwavering resolve, the road is theirs. It was decades ago that Harold earned his spot on those roadways. That won’t change no matter how much harassment, threats, or narrow-minded laws are used.
He rides because it’s in his nature. And he is exactly who he ought to be.
