I spent years hating my neighbor Frank Wilson because of his old Harley and skull tattoos. I thought he was some outlaw biker, a criminal. I was wrong. He died saving my life.

Three years ago, Frank moved in across the street, escorted by a dozen leather-clad bikers. I called the neighborhood association, worried about property values and criminals. I warned my wife to keep our daughter away from him. She just laughed.

One rainy night, my car hydroplaned and crashed. Frank was behind me. They found his body curled around mine, shielding me from the worst of the impact. Without him, I wouldn’t have survived.

In the hospital, my wife gave me Frank’s journal, where I learned he was a Vietnam combat medic who found peace riding motorcycles. The “outlaw” was actually a man dedicated to helping veterans, raising money for charity, and caring deeply for others.

Frank’s daughter later gave me his bike, “Second Chance,” saying, “Dad believed in second chances. That’s why he saved you.”

I had never ridden a motorcycle before, but with help from Frank’s biker brothers, I learned. Riding his bike opened something inside me — I began to understand Frank’s message about life and connection.

A year later, I carry Frank’s medic kit as an EMT volunteer at the veterans’ hospital. I stand at his grave, surrounded by tokens from those he helped.

I still ride “Second Chance” every day, feeling Frank beside me—not the scary biker I feared, but the man who saved me and tried to save me long before that night.

I keep his President patch on my wall as a reminder: don’t judge others by their cover. Sometimes, they’re the ones who save your life.