A Racist Biker Robbed an Elderly Woman of Her Inhaler—Unaware That Her Son Was Mike Tyson

In a quiet suburb of Brooklyn, 78-year-old Gloria Tyson was walking home from her local pharmacy with a small paper bag in hand. Inside was her new prescription inhaler—vital to help manage her chronic asthma. It was a warm afternoon, and Gloria, a gentle and soft-spoken woman known throughout the neighborhood for her kind heart, was taking her time. What she didn’t expect was to become the target of a senseless and hateful act.

Just two blocks from her apartment, a loud motorcycle roared up behind her. Startled, Gloria turned to see a leather-clad man on a beat-up bike come to a screeching halt beside her. The man, tall and scruffy, with a swastika tattoo partially visible on his neck, sneered as he looked at her.

“You people are always so weak,” he said with a cruel smile, grabbing the pharmacy bag from her hands. Gloria tried to explain that she needed her inhaler, that she couldn’t breathe without it, but the man only laughed.

“You’ll be fine,” he said mockingly. “Or maybe not. Either way, not my problem.”

He sped off, leaving her coughing and shaken on the sidewalk. A few passersby rushed to help, one of whom called her son immediately—because everyone in the neighborhood knew who Gloria’s son was.

Mike Tyson.

The Call That Changed Everything

When Mike Tyson answered the call, he was at a gym across town, working with a group of young fighters. Calm and focused, he stepped outside when he saw his mother’s name flash across his screen—but it wasn’t her voice on the line. It was a neighbor, and what he heard made the blood drain from his face.

“Mike… your mom’s okay, but something happened. Some biker—he stole her bag, took her inhaler. She’s rattled.”

That was all Tyson needed to hear.

“I’m on my way,” he growled.

Within thirty minutes, Mike Tyson pulled up in his black SUV. He found his mother safe but shaken, sitting on a bench with a blanket draped over her shoulders and an oxygen mask given to her by paramedics. She smiled weakly when she saw him.

“I’m okay, Mikey,” she whispered. “Just scared.”

Tyson knelt beside her, kissed her forehead, and gently took her hand.

“Don’t worry, Ma. I’ll take care of it.”

The Search Begins

Tyson didn’t call the police—not at first. Instead, he walked back to where the incident happened and began asking around. Within minutes, someone had identified the biker: a man named Rick “Skull” Jensen, known around the neighborhood as a troublemaker with a history of petty crimes—and racist tirades. He often hung out near an old garage on the edge of town with a small crew of like-minded bikers.

Mike Tyson didn’t waste time. He drove straight to the garage, walked in alone, and was immediately met with silence. The group of bikers lounging inside recognized him instantly. The air grew heavy.

Skull, standing near the back, was the only one who dared to speak. “Well, if it isn’t the champ himself. What brings you here, Tyson?”

Tyson took a deep breath and replied, calm but deadly serious. “You stole something from my mother. Her inhaler. She could’ve died. I want it back—now.”

Skull laughed, but it was nervous. “Old lady was fine. Just a joke, man.”

Tyson took a slow step forward. “You think it’s a joke when someone can’t breathe?”

The other bikers shifted uneasily. Skull reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the inhaler, tossing it onto a nearby table.

“There. No harm done.”

Mike walked over, picked it up, and stared at Skull for a long moment. Then, without warning, Tyson punched a metal locker beside him so hard it dented instantly. The sound echoed through the garage like a gunshot.

“I could destroy you,” Tyson said quietly. “But I won’t—not today. Because my mother taught me better.”

He turned and walked out, inhaler in hand. Behind him, no one moved.

The Aftermath

The story spread quickly. Not through tabloids, but through the community—neighbors, gym goers, even the local shop owners. Mike Tyson hadn’t just defended his mother; he’d made a statement. The biker gang, once loud and aggressive, began keeping a low profile. Within weeks, Skull moved out of town entirely.

Meanwhile, Tyson took his mother’s experience as a call to action. He worked with a local foundation to provide emergency medical kits for the elderly in the neighborhood, ensuring no one would be left helpless again. He also began speaking out about elder abuse and racism, using his platform to shed light on the injustices faced by vulnerable communities.

A Son’s Love

When asked about the incident in a later interview, Tyson didn’t talk about revenge or anger. He spoke about his mother.

“She raised me with love. She sacrificed everything. Nobody messes with my mother—not then, not now, not ever.”

He smiled.

“And I didn’t need to throw a punch to make that clear.”

For Gloria, the inhaler was returned. But more importantly, so was her sense of safety—and the quiet pride that her son, despite everything he had been through, had never forgotten where he came from, or who mattered most.

Some victories aren’t won in the ring. Some are won on the streets—by standing up, staying calm, and protecting the ones we love.