Wilbur Eugene "Tiny" Adams, Jr., 70, of Elkhart, Indiana, passed away peacefully in the familiar comfort of his own home on Friday, June 6, 2025, at 5:01 a.m., following an extended illness. His family would like to thank Heart to Heart Hospice of Elkhart for their compassion and support during Tiny's final days—even if Tiny himself might not have said thank you out loud.

Born in Elkhart to the late Wilbur E. and Barbara J. (Flicker) Adams, Sr., Tiny lived life his way—and only his way—from the very beginning. Though his given name was Wilbur, everyone knew him simply as "Tiny," a nickname that—much like the man—was impossible to forget and perhaps only half ironic.

Tiny was, in a word, opinionated. In a few more words, he was brash, stubborn, unapologetically himself, and not exactly what you'd call a "people person." He was equal parts gruff and genuine, the kind of man who wouldn't sugarcoat the truth—or anything else, for that matter. His dislike for most folks was something of a legend, and in a strange way, it became one of his most enduring charms. Those who did manage to get close to him—and there were a rare few—earned a place in his world that he guarded fiercely, sometimes with a glare, sometimes with a grunt, and on the best days, with a good story over coffee or a smoke on the porch.

Tiny is survived by his brothers, Mark Adams of Bristol and Steve (Darnella) Adams of North Ft. Myers, Florida; his sister, Karen S. (Rick) Stauffer of Elkhart; his step-brother TJ (Shantel) Adams of Elkhart and step-sister Wanda (Randy) Dick of South Bend. He also leaves behind a loosely organized band of extended family, biker brothers and sisters, and fellow loners who somehow—despite all odds—grew to love the old sourpuss. He was preceded in death by his parents and by his fiercely loyal Rottweiler, Bear, who probably understood Tiny better than anyone else.

Tiny made his living as a machinist, working with his hands and keeping to himself as much as possible. But his real passion was the open road. A lifelong biker, he found his freedom in the rumble of a Harley, the wind in his face, and the company of folks who preferred throttle to small talk. He was also a talented woodworker, building benches, birdhouses, and tables—not for show, but for function and pride. If it had a purpose, Tiny would build it. If it didn't, well, you could keep it.

At home, he kept things simple and on his terms. He was a fiercely private man, a self-proclaimed Christian, and a vocal Trump supporter—never shy about telling you exactly what he thought, whether you asked or not. He didn't suffer fools lightly, but he valued honesty, loyalty, and a good piece of wood to carve just as much as any quiet sunset on the back porch.

In keeping with Tiny's own wishes (and let's be honest, there was no arguing with him), there will be no public services. Cremation has taken place under the direction of Billings Funeral Home and Cremation Services in Elkhart.

So here's to Tiny: a man who didn't fake kindness, didn't pretend to like you if he didn't—and never once compromised who he was. The world may have been a bit rougher with him in it, but it's just a little duller now that he's gone. Ride on, Tiny. Ride on.