While I was at my wife Barbara’s funeral, someone vandalized my Harley in the church parking lot. It wasn’t random. They spray-painted “BIKER TRASH GET OUT” on it—because I didn’t fit the image of our upscale community, Cedar Hills.
We’d moved here six months earlier, after Barbara’s cancer returned. Our daughter found us a one-story home in this “respectable” neighborhood. From day one, my Harley was a problem for the HOA president, Howard Parkman, who made it clear motorcycles didn’t belong. Barbara, even while fighting cancer, stood by me. “My husband’s bike isn’t going anywhere,” she told Howard. And it didn’t. But the complaints never stopped—noise, oil stains, “concerned” neighbors. Barbara found it ironic. “They think your bike is the worst thing here?”
They Vandalized My Motorcycle During My Wife’s Funeral
After she passed, I rode to the funeral like I always had—with her in spirit. The service was beautiful. But when I came out, my bike was wrecked. And Howard, watching smugly from across the lot, told me everything I needed to know.
Caroline, my daughter, begged me to let her drive me home. I refused. I needed that ride—to feel something, anything.
At the reception, Howard had the gall to suggest the vandalism was a “sign” to give up riding. I told him: “I’ve buried my wife and my brothers. I’ve got nothing left to lose—and I always find out who crosses me.”
The Black Widow still stands. And so do I.
