The pavement burned at 97 degrees when they forced my 72-year-old husband onto the asphalt. I’ll never forget the sight – Harold, a Bronze Star veteran with two tours in Vietnam, lying face-down in his riding leathers while four police cars blocked traffic. All because some rookie cop decided his motorcycle was “too loud.”
For twenty-three agonizing minutes, I watched from the growing crowd as Officer Kowalski kept his boot near Harold’s head, occasionally nudging him when he tried to shift his arthritic knees off the scorching pavement. Passing drivers slowed to gawk at the “dangerous criminal” – my husband of 48 years who volunteers at the children’s hospital every weekend.
When they finally let him up, his face was raw from the asphalt, his hands trembling behind his back. That’s when Kowalski leaned in and delivered the gut punch: “Guys like you don’t belong on the roads anymore.” Just like that, they tried to strip away the one thing that’s kept Harold going since Vietnam – his motorcycle.
I knew then I couldn’t stay silent. Not when this was clearly retaliation for Harold speaking against the mayor’s new noise ordinance. Not when seven other older riders had faced similar harassment. And certainly not when I saw how broken Harold looked that night, sitting alone in our garage, staring at his untouched bike.
So I organized. I reached out to the other wives, to Harold’s VA doctor, to my nephew the civil rights attorney. By the time we packed the city council chambers with leather-clad veterans and news cameras, they never saw us coming. The mayor’s son withdrew his ordinance that night, and Kowalski? He came to apologize after seeing the error of his ways.
Now Harold leads the Memorial Day ride again, his “Too Tough to Stop” patch gleaming in the sun. And that rookie cop? He rides with them now too – on a bike of his own, having learned the hard way that you don’t mess with men who’ve earned their miles.