I never imagined my lowest moment could get worse—until I walked out of my wife’s funeral and found my motorcycle vandalized in the church parking lot. My Harley Electra Glide, which I’d carefully parked before the service, lay on its side, scratched and dented, with a cruel note taped to it: “Biker trash get out.”
This wasn’t random. It was personal. For months, our new neighbors in Cedar Hills had made it clear they didn’t approve of my bike. The homeowners’ association president, Howard Parkman, had repeatedly “reminded” me of their rules—no motorcycles visible in driveways, no “excessive noise.” But my wife, Barbara, had always laughed it off. Even as cancer weakened her, she’d say, “They think a motorcycle is the biggest problem in this neighborhood?”
Now, with Barbara gone, the harassment had escalated. As I stood there, numb with grief, I noticed Howard watching from across the parking lot—with a smirk.
The officer who took my report shook his head. “Cowardly,” he muttered. But I knew the truth. This wasn’t just about a bike. It was about punishing a man who refused to conform.
At the reception, Howard had the nerve to approach me. “Maybe this is a sign,” he said, feigning sympathy. I stared him down. “The only sign I see is that someone here is a coward.”
My bike still runs. And so do I.
