THEY PAINTED THREE BIKERS’ HARLEYS NEON PINK — THEN THE KID STARTED BEGGING THEM TO GET ANGRY
NINE BIKERS WALKED OUT OF A DINER AND FOUND THEIR MEMORIAL HARLEYS COVERED IN NEON PINK PAINT. A TEENAGER WAS ALREADY FILMING THEM, SMILING AND SHOUTING, “COME ON, HIT ME!” BUT ONE BIKER NOTICED SOMETHING THAT MADE HIM STOP THE ENTIRE GROUP.
My name is Hank.
I'm sixty-four years old, and I've been riding since I was sixteen.
That morning, nine of us were traveling from Tulsa toward Amarillo for a brother's memorial.
Nobody had slept much.
Nobody was talking much.
We were tired, grieving, and already on edge.
Then we stopped at a lonely truck-stop diner for breakfast.
Forty minutes later, I pushed open the diner door.
And froze.
My Harley was covered in neon pink paint.
A thick fluorescent stripe ran from the headlight across the tank and down the saddlebag.
Two other motorcycles had been painted even worse.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Moose walked outside.
He stared at his bike.
His face went completely still.
“What the hell…”
Across the parking lot stood a skinny teenager wearing a backward cap and oversized hoodie.
He was holding his phone horizontally.
And laughing.
“Come on!” he shouted.
“Let's see those tough bikers!”
His friend was filming from inside a car.
Moose started walking toward them.
Then Bear followed.
Then another rider.
I felt my own anger rising.
Those motorcycles weren't toys.
Mine carried a memorial engraving for my younger brother.
Another had been rebuilt by a rider and his son before the boy left for military service.
These machines carried memories.
And this kid had turned them into a joke.
“Get mad!” the teenager shouted.
That stopped me.
I looked at his face.
He wasn't scared.
He was excited.
He wanted us angry.
He wanted us to come closer.
He wanted the cameras rolling.
I grabbed Moose's arm.
“Wait.”