While four squad cars stopped traffic for what they called a “routine stop,” the officer forced my 72-year-old husband to lie face-down on the tarmac in 97-degree heat, his arthritic knees grinding into the blazing concrete.
As passing cars halted to stare at the “dangerous biker” being detained, Harold remained there for twenty-three minutes with his hands tied behind his back and his grey beard pressed to the road. As my husband, a Bronze Star veteran who served two tours in Vietnam, roasted on the concrete like roadkill, I overheard one mom tell her children to “look at the criminal.” All because the pipes that had passed inspection two weeks before were “too loud” from his motorcycle exhaust.
Harold tried to change positions to ease the pain in his knees, but Officer Kowalski, the young police officer, maintained his boot close to his head the entire time, occasionally poking him. He yelled, “Stay down, old man,” loud enough for everyone in the crowd to hear. These elderly motorcyclists believe they control the roads. It’s time you learnt something new.
Harold’s face was scorched by the tarmac when they eventually allowed him to stand, and he struggled to keep his composure while his hands were quivering. At that moment, Kowalski moved near, away from the dash cams, and muttered something that caused my 48-year-married husband to break down in a way I had never witnessed before.
Harold simply glanced at the wall and mumbled, “He said guys like me don’t belong on the roads anymore,” when I subsequently asked him what the cop had said. declared that before someone was harmed, it was time to hang up.
I made the decision to employ my powers at that point. My next move would either save my husband’s soul or ruin our marriage. However, I initially had to choose between being the obedient wife they had anticipated and the woman who once
I must tell you what they did to Harold; my name is Nancy. I’m telling you because what occurred that day destroyed something in the toughest man I’ve ever known, and I’ll be damned if I let it stand. It’s not because I want sympathy or because we’re going to sue—Harold would sooner die than be “that guy.”
Harold is not a weekend warrior who had a midlife crisis and got a bike. When he was sixteen years old, his father taught him how to ride an old Indian after returning from Korea. During his two tours in Vietnam, he ran messages through hostile area on a motorbike and saved lives. He rode to our wedding, to the hospital for the birth of each of our three children, and to their funerals when our son died in Afghanistan.
Our garage bike is more than just a piece of equipment. It is Harold’s link to all of the miles he has travelled, all of the storms he has endured, and all of the brothers he has journeyed with who are no longer with him. And with a whisper, a punk with a badge and three years of police experience attempted to take that away.
The morning it occurred began as any other. Harold had to go to the VA hospital for his monthly exam because of something involving his exposure to Agent Orange and his liver enzymes. He claims the breeze helps dispel the fog from all the drugs he takes, which is why he always rides when the weather is nice.
When I heard the sirens, I was in the kitchen. We live close to the main road, and emergency vehicles frequently pass by, so I didn’t give it much thought. However, I became concerned when Harold failed to return home after two hours. The duration of his appointments is never that long.
Next, Janet, our neighbour, knocked on the door. She was holding her phone and had a pallid face.
She showed me a video that her teenage son had taken and said, “Nancy, I think you need to see this.”
Harold was laying face-down on the hot tarmac, surrounded by police cars. It appeared as though he had been forced to halt abruptly because his bike was parked at an angle. One officer had his knee on Harold’s back, and the other four stood around him with their hands on their rifles.
Watching my husband, who had a Bronze Star, had raised three children and buried one, and had never received a speeding ticket in his fifty years of riding, be treated like an ordinary criminal made my hands shake.
That was forty minutes ago, Janet remarked quietly. All of the children are posting about it. It’s being referred to as police brutality.
After grabbing my keys, I drove crazily to the location where Janet claimed it occurred. Harold was seated on the curb, uncuffed but still surrounded by police, when I got there. Sweat was seeping through his vest, which had his military emblems and the ’22 a Day’ ribbon for veteran suicide awareness, and his face was flushed from the heat and effort.
As I got closer, one officer remarked, “Ma’am, you need to stay back.”
“That’s my husband,” I yelled, shoving him aside. “How are you, Harold? ”
The sight on his face when he glanced up at me almost made me cry. Pain, humiliation, and, more importantly, defeat.
“I’m all right, Nan,” he muttered. Not loud enough. Harold’s voice is one of the things that made me fall in love with him; it always booms.
“What took place? Why did they—
The young cop cut in, “His exhaust exceeds the legal decibel limit.” The badge number of Officer Kowalski is 4782. I will always remember that. “We got several complaints.”
“From whom? I made a demand. Every month, he travels this trip. No one has ever voiced a complaint.
The cop gave a shrug. “Unnamed advice. This morning, three of them.
I understood right away what this was about. Harold had testified against the proposed “motorcycle noise ordinance” at a city council meeting last week. The ordinance was a flimsy attempt to deter bikers from utilising specific town roadways. He had been impassioned and articulate as he described how riding motorcycles brings solace to many veterans and how the motorcycle community helps out local organisations and businesses.
The mayor’s son, who had been advocating for the ordinance after purchasing a home on Main Street and learning—shock of shocks—that Main Street has traffic, had likewise been humiliated by him.
For loud pipes, you threw him to the ground, then? I raised my voice and asked. A veteran who is 72 years old? ”
As if reading from a script, Officer Kowalski stated, “He failed to immediately comply with instructions.” “We adhered to protocol.”
He has war-related partial deafness! I fired back. “His VA file contains it. He most likely didn’t hear you well.
The officers looked at each other. They were unaware. Naturally, they were unaware. They assumed something after spotting an elderly motorcyclist.
Harold was released with a warning following an additional hour of “processing,” which appeared to entail a lot of standing about and radio calls. Just a “verbal warning” regarding his exhaust—no ticket, no arrest. Fourteen days prior, the same exhaust had cleared a state inspection.
Harold followed me on his bike, but he didn’t say anything on the drive home. When I looked at him in the rearview mirror, I saw that he was riding more hesitantly, as if he was scared of being seen.
I found him in the garage that night after he had showered and after supper, when he had hardly touched his food. merely sitting there and gazing at his bicycle.
Do you want to discuss it? I pulled up another container and asked.
I assumed he wouldn’t respond because he was silent for so long. Next: “Kowalski. The child. He drew me aside when they released me and you had gone to retrieve the car.
“What did he say? ”
Harold clinched and unclenched his hands. “Said that people like me no longer belong on the roads.” claimed that before someone was harmed, it was time to hang up. “Next time,” he said, trailing off.
“What will happen next time? ”
“They would find something that would stick the next time.” claimed that if they examine closely enough, they will always find something.
Real and unsightly, the menace hovered between us. We both under
stood his meaning. Plant something. “Find” an infraction. Make Harold’s life so hard that he would give up riding.
I responded, “You can’t let them win.” “This is your identity.”
Harold remarked, “Maybe he’s right,” and those three words struck me like a blow to the body. Perhaps I’m too old. Perhaps the moment has come.
I called him by his entire name, Harold Eugene Mitchell, just like I always did when our children were in trouble. You have fifty-six years of riding experience. You’ve made it through cancer, Agent Orange, Vietnam, and losing Bobby. Will you let a punk police officer who was most likely in nappies on 9/11 to identify you? ”
That nearly made him smile. Nearly.
I saw my husband retreat over the course of the following few days. He skipped his weekly ride with the Veterans’ Organisation. His intention to lead the Memorial Day ride was cancelled. For the first time since he had restored it, his bike was sitting in the garage, unaltered, and collecting dust.
However, I also began making phone calls. To Janet’s son, who had captured the footage. to additional witnesses. To Harold’s fellow riders from the Veterans’ Association. And to my nephew, a civil rights lawyer by profession.
I was enraged by what I discovered. Harold wasn’t the initial one. Seven other elderly bikers had been stopped, harassed, and humiliated in the last six months. All after addressing the meeting of the city council. Everybody was cautioned about their “dangerous” bikes. Two motorcycles had already been sold.
It has nothing to do with noise. It has to do with image. To “clean up” the town’s image, the mayor’s son and his affluent development cronies pushed out anyone who didn’t match their ideal of suburban perfection.
They chose to meddle with the wrong wife, though.
I initially organised in a discreet manner. Talk casually at the grocery store and over coffee with the other wives. In a week, I had a network of women who were furious because their husbands had been singled out. We had a plan by the second week.
I informed Harold I was going to the store the night before the next meeting of the municipal council. Rather, I took a car to the VA hospital, where I had scheduled a consultation with the head of mental services, Dr. Patricia Reeves.
“Mrs. She greeted me in her office and said, “Mitchell. “I received your mail. How may I be of assistance? ”
Harold’s withdrawal, the embarrassment, the stop, and the threat were all explained by me. With each syllable, her face darkened.
Are you aware of the number of our patients that use motorcycling as a kind of therapy? When I was done, she enquired. How many veterans use two wheels to find peace? It’s unacceptable what they did to your husband.
“Are you going to give a speech at the municipal council meeting? I enquired. “Someone with authority must speak to them.”
She made no hesitation. “I will surpass that. I’ll bring information. Data. And perhaps some other individuals who would wish to express their opinions.
Harold saw I was suited up the morning of the meeting.
“Are you going somewhere special? He enquired during breakfast.
With a nonchalant tone, I said, “City council meeting.” Do you want to attend? ”
He gave a headshake. “Nan, I’m done fighting that battle.”
I kissed his cheek and murmured, “That’s okay.” “But I’m not,”
Harold was unaware that everyone in his riding group intended to go. as well as their spouses. Additionally, Dr. Reeves was accompanied by a VA contingent. And a folder full of civil rights breaches, held by my nephew. Additionally, Janet’s son’s film, which has been edited to include legal experts’ commentary on police practice.
The council room was full. Only standing room. A sea of resolute faces, military emblems, and leather vests. The sight of the gathering caused the mayor’s son to wobble when he stood to deliver his enlarged noise law request.
Despite my nervousness, I spoke first, maintaining a steady tone.
You can call me Nancy Mitchell. Harold, my spouse, has been a member of this community for forty years. He has assisted in raising funds for the children’s hospital, volunteered at every charity ride, and provided PTSD support to young warriors. For the offence of cycling when elderly, your police force tossed him face-down into flaming asphalt two weeks ago.
I displayed the video of Janet’s youngster on my phone. “I have video of what happened. Seven additional riders are willing to testify to such harassment. Additionally, I would like to ask this council: Do you wish to convey this message to the veterans in our community? That if they decide to ride motorcycles, their service is worthless? ”
Others spoke, one by one. Statistics regarding motorbike therapy for PTSD were presented by Dr Reeves. Veterans related how their lives were spared by biking. With composure, my nephew described the lawsuits the city may face if the harassment persisted.
However, when Walter “Tank” Morrison, 85, stumbled to his feet, that was the turning point. Tank rode a specially constructed bike after losing both of his legs below the knee in Korea.
His voice was powerful but raspy as he stated, “I was born in this town.” “I fought for this nation.” returned home to establish a company and bring up a family. You want to tell me that because it annoys certain new riders, I can’t ride? Do you want police officers to intimidate men like Harold Mitchell? Good guys who have sacrificed everything? ”
He stopped and balanced on his cane. “I have some news for you.” We arrived first. When you’re gone, we’ll be here. And until the good Lord himself commands us to stop, we will continue to ride. Not some cocky newbie who believes that harassment is a smart way to enforce the law.
The room erupted in cheers. The harm was done even though the mayor gaveled for order. Everything was being captured on tape by the TV crews Janet’s son had discreetly notified.
A break was called by the mayor. I was approached by Officer Kowalski during the break. Uncomfortable, out of uniform, and extremely youthful.
“Mrs. Mitchell,” he uttered softly. “I must apologise to you and your spouse. I simply could not comprehend. These motorcyclists were troublemakers, according to my supervisor, and we needed to send a message. I never gave their true identities much thought.
I looked at him for a while. “You informed my husband that he was no longer fit to drive.”
He flinched. “I was mistaken. Completely incorrect. I want to personally apologise to him if you don’t mind.
I said, “That’s up to Harold.” However, you ought to be aware of something. That dude you made fun of? He saved three members of his team, earning him a Bronze Star. He has not had a mishap in over 500,000 miles of riding. You will never learn as much about road safety as he has forgotten. Perhaps keep that in mind the next time you encounter an elderly motorcyclist.
The mayor subtly stated at the meeting’s resumption that the noise regulation proposal was being withdrawn for “further study.” He also unveiled a new plan to enhance police-community relations, beginning with required training on how to deal with veterans and senior citizens.
It was a beginning, but it wasn’t everything.
I was both relieved and nervous as I drove home. Harold wasn’t aware of any of this, and I wasn’t sure how he would respond.
He wasn’t just sitting in the garage when I found him. He was changing the oil on his motorbike. It was his first maintenance after the tragedy.
Without looking up, he remarked, “I heard on the news that there was quite a turnout at the city council.” “The entire riding community seems to have been organised by someone.”
“Oh? “I said naively.” “That’s good.”
He laughed, which I hadn’t heard him do in two weeks. Tank dialled. My wife gave them hell, they said. claimed that you made him think of a drill sergeant he was acquainted with in Korea.
I answered, “Tank exaggerates.”
Harold got up and used a shop cloth to wipe his hands. “Dr. Reeves also gave a call. Additionally, Walter’s son showed me portions of the meeting’s footage. With his hands smeared with oil, he embraced me. “I’m grateful.”
I spoke into his chest, “I couldn’t let them win.” You couldn’t allow them to make you feel as though you shouldn’t be on those roads. Harold Mitchell, you have earned every mile.
“Kowalski left a message,” he said, stepping back to gaze at me. wishes to express regret.
“What are your plans? ”
Harold thought about it. “You could ask him to ride along.” Show him what it means to ride a motorbike responsibly. The child needs education, not retaliation.
My Harold was that. Despite everything, I continue to consider teaching over retaliation.
You’re not hanging it up, then? I enquired.
“Had a weak moment,” he said, looking at his bike and then back at me. Let me think about the young police officer. But what do you know? He hasn’t been alive as long as I have been riding. These roads are familiar with my name. There is a memory in every mile.
Reaching his bike, he ran his fingers over the tank. “This machine and I have endured too much to allow a few narrow-minded individuals to choose when we’re finished. When I’m ready, not when someone else says I should, I’ll hang it up.
I awoke the following morning to Harold’s bike revving up. He was in full gear, getting ready for his morning ride, when I peered out the window. He gave the throttle a slight twist as he exited the driveway, not enough to be annoying, but enough to signal that Harold Mitchell was once again on the road where he belonged.
The entire riding group arrived at our place later that week. Tank spoke about unity and fraternity, and they gave Harold a new patch for his vest that read, “Too Tough to Stop.” The garage was filled with people.
The following Sunday, Officer Kowalski stopped by. To his credit, he offered a heartfelt apology, which Harold, being Harold, graciously accepted. For two hours, they discussed motorcycles, service, and people’s presumptions. Harold had promised to assist in educating new cops on how to engage with the motorbike community after Kowalski left.
When I raised an eyebrow, Harold responded, “Turning enemies into allies.” “More fruitful than harbouring resentment.”
As scheduled, Harold led the Memorial Day ride six months later. With motors rumbling in perfect line, five hundred bikers trailed him through the town. After completing the department’s new motorcycle safety school, Officer Kowalski traded up his cruiser for a motorbike and was a member of the police escort.
The son of the mayor relocated to a more tranquil suburb. There was never more mention of the noise ordinance. Harold, too? Harold continues to ride whenever he can, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses, his grey beard fluttering in the wind.
I occasionally see him in the garage, sitting with his bike rather than working on it, as if they were old friends enjoying some quiet time together. The bike that nearly turned into a monument to failure has returned to its original meaning as a representation of liberty, tenacity, and the unwavering spirit of a man who has earned every mile.
They attempted to convince him that he no longer belonged on the roadways. They didn’t succeed. That’s because riders like Harold, who have given their all and demanded little in return, don’t give up lightly. They may flex under stress and experience periods of uncertainty, but with the correct assistance, they recover more powerfully than before.
What happens if someone tries to convince them otherwise? I guess they’ll have to start with wives like me. We’re tougher than we appear, I promise.
Those who have earned their kilometres with perseverance, sacrifice, and sweat are the ones who own the road. Decades ago, Harold deserved to be on those roads. No amount of intimidation, hushed threats, or narrow-minded laws will alter that.
Because it’s who he is, he rides. And he should be precisely who he is.