I hate being called a biker. 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 kids won’t let me meet my grandchildren. I’ve carried this silently, hidden under leather, pride, and everything I thought made me strong. But the wound never fades—it only sharpens when I see families together, my own excluded.
My daughter would rather tell friends I’m dead than admit her dad rides a motorcycle. My son hasn’t spoken to me in eight years because his wife says I’m “not the kind of influence” they want around their kids. Every time I think of them, my chest tightens. Memories flood back—the sacrifices, sleepless nights, years I gave without asking for anything in return.
I’ve ridden for forty-three years. Vietnam vet. Purple Heart. Thirty years volunteering as a firefighter. Coached little league for fifteen seasons. Never missed a child support payment, even when I was eating ramen three meals a day. I’ve patched strangers on highways, delivered babies in smoke-filled homes, comforted children who had lost everything.
But none of it matters because I wear a leather vest and ride a Harley. That’s all they see. Not the man who worked three jobs to pay for college. Not the one who held strangers’ hands in the ER. Not the father and grandfather who loved harder than he knew how to show. Just the biker—the scary, rebellious, unfit-for-polished-company biker.
When my daughter married, she told me not to come. Ashamed, she said, of her dad on a motorcycle. I stayed home. Sat in my garage and stared at my bike—the same one I’d worked three jobs to buy so I could afford her college. She doesn’t know. She thinks I’m a deadbeat who cared more about riding than family. I could have screamed, begged, explained decades of sacrifice—but I didn’t. I just sat in silence.
I rode through two winters to get her to college after selling my truck for her tuition. Showed up at graduation with my beard braided and my vest on because it was the only warm thing I owned. She cried—not happy tears, but shame tears. “Dad, why couldn’t you just dress normal for once?” she said. I looked down at my vest, the patches I’d earned—the flag, the firefighter memorial patch.
“This is normal for me, baby girl,” I said quietly.
My son was different once. We rode together, wore matching vests, shared laughter on father-son rides. Then he met Jennifer. Wealthy family, polished lifestyle. I tried to fit their mold—slacks, polo shirt, shaved beard. Her father still looked at me like I’d crawled out of a dumpster. “So, you’re a biker,” he said—not a question, a judgment.
I paid for their rehearsal dinner—$11,000 saved over years. At the wedding, I parked my bike down the street. I wasn’t in the family photos. Their kids post pictures constantly—I’ve never been inside that house. My grandson just turned five. I’ve never held him. Only seen him in accidental videos before they get taken down. Birthday presents returned, no note, just “return to sender.”
Last Christmas, I drove past their house. Parked down the street, watched them through the window. My son came outside: “Dad, you can’t be here. Jennifer will call the cops.” “I’m your father,” I said. “Those are my grandchildren.” He turned away. “I’m sorry, Dad.” That was two years ago. Haven’t seen him since.
People think bikers don’t feel. They’re wrong. I cry every night. I see other grandpas with their grandchildren, fathers teaching kids to ride. I wonder what I did wrong that mine can’t even look at me. I never hit them, never drank, never cheated. Sacrificed everything. But I wore the wrong jacket, rode the wrong vehicle, and that erased me.
My brothers in the club are my real family now. They showed up when I had a heart attack last month. Fifteen brothers sat with me, brought food, made sure I wasn’t alone. My kids didn’t know. Still don’t.
I’m tired. Not physically, though my body is worn. I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt. Tired of being treated like a criminal for riding a motorcycle. I’ve helped more strangers than I can count, given to those in need, but still—followed in stores, denied service, blocked from family events.
If you’re a biker, you know exactly what I mean. You’ve lived it too.