They Vandalized My Motorcycle During My Wife’s Funeral

They vandalized my bike while I was at my wife’s funeral, and that too in the church parking lot. Just because they don’t want an old man in a leather vest who didn’t “fit” with their country club image.

I’d parked my meticulously maintained Harley Electra Glide in the church lot during the service. But when I came out, my soul already hollowed with grief, I found my bike on its side, completely broken, and the words “BIKER TRASH GET OUT” poster over my bike.

It wasn’t random vandalism. It was targeted hatred, from the same “respectable” citizens who’d smiled and nodded through Barbara’s service, who’d pretended to care about her widower.

The whole thing started six months earlier when we moved to Cedar Hills, the “finest planned community in the state.” Barbara’s cancer had come back, stage four this time, and our old two-story house was too much for her.

Our daughter, Caroline, found us this perfect little rancher in what she called a “nice neighborhood.” What she meant was “respectable.” What she meant was “no motorcycles.” What she meant was “time to grow up, Dad.”

But I wasn’t about to hide who I was at seventy-two years old. The Black Widow – my 2008 Harley Electra Glide that had seen me through fifteen states and two major surgeries – came with us. And the trouble started the very day we moved in.

Howard Parkman, president of the homeowners’ association, didn’t even wait until we’d unpacked. He showed up on our doorstep with a clipboard and a smile that never reached his eyes.

“Just wanted to welcome you to Cedar Hills,” he said, looking past me to where Barbara was directing the movers. “And to drop off our community guidelines. You’ll want to familiarize yourself with section 12-B regarding… transportation equipment.”

I knew what was coming before I even flipped to the page. “No recreational vehicles, boats, or motorcycles may be stored in driveways or visible from the street.”

“My bike goes in the garage,” I said, maintaining eye contact. “Has for forty years.”

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Howard’s smile tightened. “Well, that’s fine temporarily. But Cedar Hills residents typically drive… more traditional vehicles. We maintain certain standards here.”

Barbara appeared beside me, her frail hand finding mine. Even weak from chemo, her voice had steel in it.

“My husband has been riding that motorcycle since before you had your first car, Mr. Parkman. It’s not going anywhere.”

Howard’s eyes flickered to her headscarf, the visible evidence of her battle. His courage faltered.

“We can discuss this another time,” he said, retreating down our front steps. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

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And today, the same Howard, the homeowners’ association president, was watching from across the lot. The slight smirk on his face told me everything I needed to know. He thought he’d won. Thought he’d broken the old biker.For six months, Barbara fought her battle while I fought mine. The neighborhood watch reported me for “excessive noise” when I started my bike before 8 AM. Anonymous complaints appeared about oil stains on our pristine driveway (there were none – I’m meticulous about maintenance). Notes were left on the Black Widow when I parked it in the driveway while cleaning the garage.

Each time, Howard would appear with his clipboard and that same tight smile.

“Just another reminder about section 12-B,” he’d say. “Several neighbors have expressed concerns.”

Barbara, even as the cancer consumed her, found it darkly amusing.

“They think a motorcycle is the biggest threat to their property values?” she’d laugh weakly. “Wait until I start haunting the place.”

But the battle took on a different tone after Barbara slipped away on a Tuesday morning in October. I held her hand as she went, the woman who’d ridden hundreds of thousands of miles pressed against my back, who’d never once asked me to be something other than what I was.

The funeral was set for Friday. Our daughter Caroline flew in from Seattle, our son Michael drove up from Texas. The house filled with casseroles from neighbors who’d been complaining about my motorcycle just days earlier.

“Dad,” Caroline said gently the night before the service, “maybe it’s time to think about selling the Harley. Mom’s gone. You’re seventy-two. And this neighborhood clearly isn’t… compatible with that lifestyle.”

I looked at my daughter – corporate lawyer, mother of two perfect children, driver of a sensible SUV – and saw how completely she’d divorced herself from her upbringing. From the little girl who’d loved riding in my sidecar, who’d worn a tiny leather jacket with pride.

“The bike stays,” I said simply. “Your mother never asked me to give it up. Never even suggested it.”

“But Mom’s not—” she caught herself, but I heard the unspoken words. Mom’s not here anymore.

“The bike stays,” I repeated, ending the conversation.

The morning of the funeral, I rode to the church early to meet with the pastor. The rumble of the Electra Glide drew disapproving stares from early arrivers, but I didn’t care. This was how Barbara would have wanted me to arrive – on two wheels, the way she’d known me for fifty years.

The service was beautiful. Even Howard and his wife attended, along with most of our neighbors. They spoke kindly of Barbara, offered condolences, shook my hand with appropriate solemnity. I even saw Howard nod approvingly at my suit, as if surprised I owned one.

Then I walked outside to find my vandalized motorcycle.

“Oh my God,” Caroline gasped, rushing to my side. “Dad, I’m so sorry.”

I said nothing, just stared at the the broken bike and the ugly words had helped me pick out. Around us, funeral attendees murmured in shock, but I noticed how few of my neighbors seemed surprised.

Officer Reynolds, who’d responded to my call, shook his head as he wrote up the report.

“Never understood why people target bikes,” he said. “Cowardly, if you ask me.”

“It’s not random,” I told him. “This is personal.”

He glanced up. “You have enemies at a church funeral?”

I looked across the parking lot to where Howard stood with several other Cedar Hills residents, watching the proceedings with barely concealed satisfaction.

“More than I thought,” I replied.

The bike was still rideable, despite the damage. Caroline insisted I put it in her rental car and let her drive me home, but I refused.

“I’ve ridden through worse,” I told her.

The truth was, I needed the ride – needed the wind and the rumble and the familiar vibration beneath me. Needed to feel something besides the hollow emptiness Barbara’s absence had left.

Back at the house, friends and family gathered for the post-funeral reception. I changed out of my suit into jeans and a button-up shirt, but kept my leather vest on over it – the one with the Vietnam Veteran patch and the insignia of the Iron Horses MC, the club I’d ridden with for decades.

Howard cornered me by the refreshment table, a plate of untouched finger sandwiches in his hand.

“Terrible about your motorcycle,” he said, not sounding terrible about it at all. “Though perhaps a sign it’s time to consider something more… appropriate for Cedar Hills.”

I met his gaze steadily. “The only sign I’m seeing is that someone in this neighborhood is a coward who vandalizes property during a funeral.”

His face flushed. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Didn’t say you would,” I replied. “But whoever did it should know something about me.”

“What’s that?” Howard asked, unable to disguise his curiosity.

“I’ve buried my wife, my parents, and sixteen riding brothers over the years. I’ve got nothing left to lose.” I leaned closer. “And I always find out who crosses me.”