A Ride That Was Supposed to Be Ordinary
Harold Mitchell, 72 years old, woke up early that morning, laced his boots, and rolled his motorcycle out of the garage. For him, riding wasn’t a hobby—it was oxygen. He had been on two tours in Vietnam, carried messages through enemy fire, and earned a Bronze Star. That bike had carried him to our wedding, to the hospital for our children’s births, and even to the funeral of our son who never made it home from Afghanistan.
That day, he was heading to a routine VA appointment. It was 97 degrees, the pavement shimmering like glass. He had no idea that before the sun set, strangers would film him lying face-down on that scorching asphalt like a criminal.
