My name is Nancy, and I need to tell you what happened to my husband, Harold—a 72-year-old Vietnam vet, Bronze Star recipient, and lifelong biker—because what happened nearly broke the strongest man I know.
Two weeks ago, police forced Harold face-down on 97-degree asphalt during a so-called “routine stop” for a “too loud” motorcycle exhaust that had passed inspection days earlier. Four squad cars surrounded him. One young cop, Officer Kowalski, kept his boot near Harold’s head, sneering, “Stay down, old man.” For 23 minutes, Harold lay there, his arthritic knees grinding into hot pavement while strangers gawked like he was a criminal.
What really hurt him wasn’t the cuffs or humiliation—it was what Kowalski whispered afterward: “Guys like you don’t belong on the roads anymore. Next time, we’ll find something that sticks.” That crushed something in Harold. For the first time in 56 years of riding, he considered giving it up.
But I couldn’t let that happen. I started making calls. Talking to witnesses. Reaching out to Harold’s vet buddies. Turns out he wasn’t the only older biker harassed lately—this was part of a campaign tied to a city noise ordinance pushed by the mayor’s son, aimed at scrubbing the town of “undesirable images.” Harold and others had publicly opposed it.
I rallied the wives, the vets, the VA doctors, and even my civil rights attorney nephew. We packed the next city council meeting. Testimonies poured in—about healing through riding, about harassment, about community. And when 85-year-old amputee Walter “Tank” Morrison declared, “We were here first. We’ll ride until the good Lord says otherwise,” the room erupted.
The ordinance was dropped. Kowalski later came to apologize, and Harold—ever the teacher—offered him a ride and mentorship. Eventually, Kowalski joined the department’s new motorcycle safety unit.
Harold rides again. Every mile now carries not just his story—but a stand for every veteran who’s been told they’re “too old” to matter.
They tried to silence him. But they forgot something: Harold doesn’t ride alone. He rides with a whole community behind him. And a wife who refuses to let him fall.
The road belongs to those who’ve earned it. And Harold earned every mile.
