The cages have me, but I’m alive. And I want the world to know it.
I died to the outside world on September 26, 2014. That’s what my tombstone should say. On that day, I wasn’t just sentenced, I disappeared from the world. I was 50 years old when Colorado gave me 264 and a half years under its version of California’s Three Strikes law. I never killed or hurt anyone. But because I was labeled a habitual offender, they stacked my sentences. The time was non-concurrent, meaning one after the other. Just one part of it is 96 years. Starting a 96-year sentence at age 50 is a slow death. That’s how I became dead to the outside world.
At first, I tried to stay connected. I asked my dad to sell my Lincoln, because in prison, money keeps you alive. I bought a TV, a coffee pot, small comforts to hold onto some kind of normal. But prison doesn’t just separate you physically, it erases you emotionally. My family slowly fell away. Out of sight, out of mind.
When my dad died in February, I should have inherited a piece of the Moore estate, something I helped build. Instead, I got a letter from my Aunt Shirley. Your dad passed. You’re never getting out. So you were left out of the will. That was the final blow. The moment I was completely cut off. There is no Moore family anymore. The memories live on in my head, but what are they worth if there’s no one left to share them with?
But here’s what I need the world to understand. I am not dead. I’m still here. I’m still alive. I’m still a biker. Before I came inside, I sold everything I had except for one thing. My bike. Because you can’t sell your Harley any more than you can sell your soul. Her name is Hawg Wild. She’s a 1978 FLH Shovelhead Harley, rebuilt from the ground up by my brother Ed, the owner of Hawg Wild Custom Choppers. He stroked the motor, replaced everything with high-performance S and S parts, and made her a beast.
Ed passed away. The shop is gone. But his sister Joy, known as Mama Frog, has kept my bike in her garage all these years. She’s holding onto it. Waiting. Hoping. Believing that someday society will change. That the system will finally make room for second chances. Even for long-haired tattooed bikers like me.
So write this on my tombstone if you want. He died to the outside world in 2014. But remember. The cages have me, but I’m alive. And I want the world to know it.
Feel free to write.
