My motorbike was stolen in the church parking lot when I was at my wife’s funeral.
The only reason they did it was because they didn’t like an old man with a leather vest who didn’t fit in with their fancy country club lifestyle.
I had left my well-kept Harley Electra Glide parked for the service. When I got back, already inconsolable by losing my wife, I found it completely overturned and badly damaged, with the words “BIKER TRASH GET OUT” scrawled on it.
It was personal; it wasn’t a random incident. The “respectable” individuals who had feigned concern at the funeral were the ones who sent it.
It all began when we moved to the upscale planned neighborhood of Cedar Hills six months ago. Barbara was unable to cope with our last home because her illness had progressed to stage four.
We found a little house in a “nice neighborhood,” according to our daughter Caroline. “Proper” is what she really meant. “No bikes” was what she intended. “It’s time to change, Dad,” she intended.
I had no intention of altering my identity at seventy-two. I had driven my 2008 Harley Electra Glide, which I called the Black Widow, through fifteen states and two major operations. It also moved with us when we moved. On the first day, the problems started.
Before we had even unloaded, Howard Parkman, the homeowners’ association president, showed up at our door. He had a fake smile on his face and was carrying a clipboard.
He remarked, “Welcome to Cedar Hills,” looking over my shoulder at Barbara as she gave the movers instructions. I wanted to provide you the rules for our community. Don’t forget to review section 12-B regarding transportation.
Before I even looked, I understood what he meant. “No recreational vehicles, boats, or motorcycles may be parked in driveways or in areas where they are visible from the street,” the rule stated.
I looked him in the eye and said, “My bike goes in the garage.” “It has for four decades.”
Howard’s smile tightened. For the moment, that’s okay. More conventional cars are usually driven by Cedar Hills inhabitants. “Here, there are some standards.”
Barbara came over to me and touched my hand. She was weak from chemotherapy, but her voice was powerful.
“Mr. Parkman, my spouse has been riding that bike since before you bought your first car. It isn’t going anywhere.”
After taking a quick look at her headscarf, Howard moved away.
He walked away after saying, “We can discuss it at a later time.” “Hello, welcome to the area.”
And now across the parking lot, that same Howard was keeping an eye on everything. Everything was conveyed by the small grin on his face. In his mind, he had won. believed that the old biker had been broken.
While I handled the neighborhood, Barbara fought illness for six months. People complained that if I started riding my bike before 8 a.m., I was generating “too much noise.” Oil stains on my driveway were the subject of anonymous complaints, but there weren’t any since I took great care of it. My Harley was always getting messages from people when I put it outside to tidy the garage.
It was Howard who always showed there with his clipboard and the same fake smile.
“A brief reminder regarding Rule 12-B,” he would say. “Some of the neighbors are concerned.”
It was kind of humorous to Barbara, even as she grew ill.
“They believe that a motorcycle is the main issue in this area?” She would say, stutteringly laughing. “Ask me to haunt the place first.”
However, after Barbara’s death on a Tuesday morning in October, everything changed. The woman who had accompanied me on thousands of miles of riding, never once asking me to change who I was, was leaving, and I held her hand.
Friday was her funeral. While Michael drove up from Texas, Caroline came from Seattle. The same neighbors who had just complained about my bike pissed our house full of casseroles.
Caroline’s voice was beautiful that evening. “Maybe it’s time to think about selling the Harley, Dad.” Mom is no longer here. At seventy-two, you are. Furthermore, this community obviously does not support that way of life.
I noticed how much my daughter had changed from the young child who used to ride in my sidecar in her tiny leather jacket to the lawyer, mother of two, and sensible SUV that she now drives.
“The bike remains,” I declared. “I never once was asked to give it up by your mom.”
She halted as she started to say, “But Mom’s not—” but I understood what she was saying: Mom isn’t there anymore.
“The bike stays,” I reiterated, bringing the discussion to an end.
I got to the church early to meet with the pastor on the morning of the funeral.
I didn’t mind that some people looked at me with disapproval when they heard the engine. I usually arrive on two wheels, therefore Barbara would have anticipated me to arrive on two wheels.
The service was beautiful. Nearly all of the neighbors were present, including Howard and his spouse. They expressed their condolences to me and said wonderful things about Barbara. As if I had finally lived up to his expectations, Howard even nodded, looking surprised that I was wearing a suit.
Then I went outside and saw that someone had damaged my motorcycle.
Caroline cried, “Oh my God,” and ran over. “Dad, I really apologize.”
I kept quiet. Barbara had assisted me in selecting and caring for the bike, and I just stared at the broken bike with the hurtful comments painted on it. Around us, people mumbled in shock, but I saw that not many of our neighbors were shocked.
As he filed his report, Officer Reynolds, who had come when I called, shook his head.
“I don’t understand why people chase bikes,” he said. “That is cowardly.”
“This wasn’t just anything,” I clarified. “It was private.”
He gave me a glance. Would someone do this during a funeral, in your opinion?
Across the parking lot, I saw Howard standing with other Cedar Hills locals, obviously happy with the outcome.
I answered, “More than I realized.”
Despite the damage, the bike was still functional. I refused Caroline’s offer to put it in her rental car and drive me home.
I informed her that I had experienced worse.
I needed the ride, that was the truth. The sound of the engine, the wind, and the feel of the bike underfoot were all things I needed. I was looking for anything to fill the gap Barbara had left.
Upon returning home, family members and guests assembled for the reception. My leather vest, which bore the logo of the Iron Horses MC, the club I had ridden with for years, and my Vietnam Veteran patch, remained on when I changed out of my suit and into jeans and a shirt.
Howard approached me as I stood with a plate of unopened sandwiches by the food table.
Although it didn’t sound like he meant it, he said, “Terrible about your motorcycle.” “Perhaps this indicates that something more appropriate for Cedar Hills should be considered.”
I gave him my full attention. “The only indication that someone is a coward here is that they broke my bike at a funeral.”
His face flushed. “I’m not familiar with that.”
“Never claimed you did,” I remarked. Whoever did, though, ought to know something about me.
With obvious curiosity, he inquired, “What’s that?”
My wife, parents, and sixteen brothers with whom I journeyed have all been buried. There is nothing left for me to lose. I bent closer. “And I never fail to discover who has wronged me.”
