For years, I judged Frank, my 67-year-old biker neighbor, based on his Harley and tattoos, thinking he was a dangerous outlaw. But one rainy night, when my car hydroplaned and crashed, Frank sacrificed his life to save mine. The doctors later told me that without him, I wouldn’t have survived.
I first met Frank three years ago when he moved in. His arrival was accompanied by a convoy of bikers, and I immediately feared the worst, calling the neighborhood association about the “criminal gang” that had moved in. But I didn’t know the man I was judging.
It wasn’t until weeks after the accident that I learned Frank had shielded me from the explosion after pulling me from the wreck. His daughter gave me his journal, revealing that Frank had been a Vietnam combat medic who found peace in the biker community, where he led charity work, not crime. He had noticed something in me that I hadn’t seen in myself.
After his death, Frank’s bike—his “Second Chance”—was given to me, along with his legacy of helping others. It took me time, but I learned to ride, volunteered at the hospital, and now honor his memory, hoping to live up to the man he believed I could be.
