I hate being called a biker because my own kids won’t let me meet my grandchildren. There. I said it. Sixty-seven years old, and I finally admitted the truth that’s been eating me alive for the past decade.

My daughter told her friends I’m dead rather than admit her father rides a motorcycle. My son hasn’t spoken to me in eight years because his wife said I’m “not the kind of influence” they want around their kids.

I’ve been riding for forty-three years. Vietnam vet. Purple Heart. Thirty years as a volunteer firefighter. Coached little league for fifteen seasons. Continues…