I buried my only son yesterday. Then drove home to find someone had spray-painted “Dangerous Old Biker Trash” for my son across my garage door. Thirty years I’ve lived in this neighborhood. Thirty goddamn years of waving to these people, shoveling their sidewalks, fixing their kids’ bicycles for free. Now, they’ve decided I’m the enemy. Because last week, little Emma Townsend was hit by a car down on Maple Street, and somehow, these idiots think it’s my fault. They see an old man on a Harley and decide I’m responsible for every motorcycle that’s ever made noise or caused trouble. I sat in my driveway for a long time, staring at that red spray paint, wondering if I should just sell the house and disappear. Jimmy would have known what to do. Jimmy always knew what to say when the world turned ugly. But Jimmy’s gone now, buried in the ground with his Army medals, while I’m still here with fresh paint calling me trash drying on my garage door. What these people don’t know – what nobody in this neighborhood knows – is exactly how my son died, or why his last text message to me said: “Dad, don’t believe what they’ll tell you. Keep the bike. The truth is in the saddlebag.” I haven’t opened that saddlebag yet. Haven’t had the strength. But tonight, with that hateful graffiti staring me in the face, I think it’s time to find out what my dead son was trying to tell me……Full story👇👇👇

I buried my only son yesterday. Then drove home to find someone had spray-painted “Dangerous Old Biker Trash” across my garage door. Thirty years I’ve lived in this neighborhood. Thirty …

I buried my only son yesterday. Then drove home to find someone had spray-painted “Dangerous Old Biker Trash” for my son across my garage door. Thirty years I’ve lived in this neighborhood. Thirty goddamn years of waving to these people, shoveling their sidewalks, fixing their kids’ bicycles for free. Now, they’ve decided I’m the enemy. Because last week, little Emma Townsend was hit by a car down on Maple Street, and somehow, these idiots think it’s my fault. They see an old man on a Harley and decide I’m responsible for every motorcycle that’s ever made noise or caused trouble. I sat in my driveway for a long time, staring at that red spray paint, wondering if I should just sell the house and disappear. Jimmy would have known what to do. Jimmy always knew what to say when the world turned ugly. But Jimmy’s gone now, buried in the ground with his Army medals, while I’m still here with fresh paint calling me trash drying on my garage door. What these people don’t know – what nobody in this neighborhood knows – is exactly how my son died, or why his last text message to me said: “Dad, don’t believe what they’ll tell you. Keep the bike. The truth is in the saddlebag.” I haven’t opened that saddlebag yet. Haven’t had the strength. But tonight, with that hateful graffiti staring me in the face, I think it’s time to find out what my dead son was trying to tell me……Full story👇👇👇 Read More