Bikers Heard Gunshots at Elementary School and Ran In While Cops Waited Outside

Every morning, I ride past Riverside Elementary. The kids wave, their small hands reaching through the fence. They don’t see scary bikers anymore. They see guardians. Protectors. The men who come when everyone else waits.

And in the second-grade classroom where Spider died, where his blood still stains the tile no matter how much they clean it, Mrs. Patterson teaches a new lesson.

“Heroes don’t always wear uniforms,” she tells her students. “Sometimes they wear leather. Sometimes they’re old and scarred and look scary. But when the worst happens, they’re the ones who run toward danger instead of away.”

There’s a memorial outside the school now. Not for the shooter—his name is never spoken. But for Spider. A bronze plaque that reads:

“David ‘Spider’ Kozlowski
1954-2021
Patriot Guard Rider
He Didn’t Wait”

And we don’t. Not anymore. Not ever.

When you see us at schools now, volunteering, watching, protecting—remember Spider. Remember that three minutes and forty-five seconds when bikers did what needed doing.

Remember that protocols are for people who have the luxury of time.

Children being shot don’t have that luxury.

Neither do we.

Ride free, Spider. We’ve got the watch now.