Since his father died in a motorcycle accident on the way to work, 47 bikers came to walk my 5-year-old kid to kindergarten.
They arrived right at 7 AM, their leather vests shining in the morning sun. They surrounded our modest house like tattooed, gray-bearded angels.
Tommy, my son, had been refusing to go to school for three weeks because he was scared that if he left the house, I would leave like Daddy did. Every morning ended with him crying and begging, his little hands holding my legs and vowing to be good if I let him stay home forever.
But this morning was different. The sound of motorcycles prompted him to go to the window, where he saw bike after bike pull onto our street.
These
“Why are Daddy’s friends here, Mommy?” Tommy muttered and pushed his nose on the glass.
Bear, the lead rider, who had been Jim’s best buddy since they were in the Army, walked up our driveway carrying something that made my heart stop.
It was Jim’s helmet, the one he had on when the drunk driver hit him. The police had given it back to him in a plastic bag, and I had hidden it in the attic because I couldn’t bear to throw it away.
But
When I opened the door, Bear’s eyes were red around the edges of his sunglasses. “Ma’am, we heard that Tommy was having problems getting to school. We should have helped Jim.
“I don’t get it,” I remarked, looking at the helmet he was holding. “How did you—”
Bear softly cut in, “You need to see something.” “Something we found while we were working on it.” Jim left the boy something inside. Tommy has to wear it to school to obtain it, though.
I stood still in my doorway. Jim never let anyone touch his helmet. His grandfather got it during World War II, made changes to it, and passed it down to his family. I should have been outraged that these men somehow acquired it and fixed it without me knowing. I felt something break inside my chest instead.
“You fixed it?” I muttered and touched the smooth black surface, which I knew had scrapes, dents, and worse.
Bear said, “It took us three months.” “Had to ask brothers from all around the country for help. Custom paint man lives in Sturgis. Leather worker from Austin did the inside work. Expert in chrome from… He stopped and swallowed hard. ” Jim was our brother. This is the least we could do.
Tommy had snuck up behind me and was looking around my leg at the men who were in our yard. Some of them I knew from better times, including Jim’s birthday parties, weekend barbecues, and charity rides. Some of them were strangers, but they all had the same look of determination on their faces.
“Is that Daddy’s hat?” Tommy asked in a soft voice.
Bear got down on one knee, and his huge body bent so that he was at eye level with my son. “Yes, it is, tiny man. And he put something special inside it for you. But here’s the thing: you have to be brave enough to wear it to school for it to work. Do you think you can do that?
Tommy chewed his lip, which was something he had been doing since Jim died. “Papa said I wasn’t big enough for his helmet.”
Bear whispered softly, “That was before.” “Before you became the head of the family.” You had to be brave for your mom before. Your dad knew this day would come, and he made sure we were here for it.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when Bear carefully put the helmet on Tommy’s little head. It should have been so big that it could have eaten him whole. But for some reason, maybe because they added padding or maybe because it was morning, it looked almost perfect.
“I can’t see!” Tommy laughed, which was the first time I had heard him laugh in months.
Bear changed something within, and all of a sudden, Tommy gasped. “Mom! Hey Mom, there are photographs in here! “Pictures of Daddy and me!”
My knees almost gave out. Bear held me steady with one hand and said, “Jim had us put a small display in the visor.” Powered by the sun and turned on by movement. He had planned it as a surprise for Tommy’s 18th birthday, when he would be old enough to ride. But then the accident happened…” He coughed. “We thought Tommy needed it now.”
“There are words too!” Tommy yelled, but the helmet muffled his voice. “It says… it says…” His voice broke. “Be brave, little warrior,” it says. “Papa’s watching.”
The other motorcyclists had made a route from our door to the street, which was lined with leather and chrome. Each man stood at attention, and some of them were clearly fighting back tears.
Bear said, “We’re going to walk him to school.” “Every day, if necessary. Until he can do it by himself. Jim rode with us for 15 years. “We are now in charge of his son.”
“All of you?” I asked, glancing at the scores of men that were standing on our sidewalk.
Bear said, “Every brother who is available.” “We’ve figured out a schedule that changes. Brothers from three different states have signed up. “Tommy will never walk alone.”
I wanted to complain and say that it was too much and that they didn’t owe us anything. But Tommy had already taken Bear’s hand and was tugging him toward the door.
“Come on, Mr. Bear!” “Please hurry up; I don’t want to miss morning circle time!”
This is from the kid who had been yelling about school for three weeks.
It was strange to walk to kindergarten. Forty-seven bikes walked in a line around a tiny boy wearing a huge helmet. Their heavy boots made a rhythm on the sidewalk. Cars came to a stop. People left their homes. Someone began to record.
Tommy stepped in the middle, his dinosaur backpack bouncing. One hand held mine, and the other held Bear’s giant fingers. Every few feet, he would touch the helmet and say something I couldn’t hear.
When we got to the school, Mrs. Henderson, the principal, was outside with what looked like the whole staff. She was crying and had her hand over her lips.
She told the bikers, “Mr. Jim talked about you all the time.” “He was so proud of his brothers.”
At that point, I learned something else. Jim had been teaching motorcycle safety at the school on the side, something he had never told anyone about. He taught students about road safety and read them books about bikes in the kindergarten classroom’s “Motorcycle Monday” program.
Mrs. Henderson said, “We didn’t want to stop the program.” “But we didn’t know how to go on without him.”
Bear moved forward. “Ma’am, if you let us, the club would be happy to carry on Jim’s work. We have brothers who are teachers, mechanics, and even a nurse for kids. “We can keep Motorcycle Monday going.”
Tommy pulled on my hand. “Mommy, can I show my class my dad’s helmet?”
I nodded, but I didn’t trust my voice. As we proceeded approaching the door, the motorcyclists lined up in two lines to make an honor guard for Tommy to walk through. As he walked by, each man nodded. Some saluted, while others just touched their hearts.
Tommy turned around to look at everyone at the door to the classroom. Then he did something that hurt my heart and made it better at the same time. He stopped there, raised his small hand to the helmet in a perfect salute—something Jim must have taught him—and exclaimed in a loud voice, “Thank you for bringing my daddy with me.”
The fiercest, roughest men I had ever seen broke down. Bear turned aside, his shoulders shaking. Some people took off their sunglasses to clean their eyes. They had to hold each other up.
Tommy marched into his classroom, his father’s helmet on his head, ready to start kindergarten.
But Bear grabbed my arm before I could go. He said in a low voice, “There’s something else.”” Jim left more than just the helmet.” He started a college fund and made sure all the brothers put money into it. A part of every charity bike and poker run went into Tommy’s account. It’s not a lot of money, but it will provide him choices.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said.
Bear said, “You don’t have to say anything.” “Jim was our brother. That means you and Tommy are family. “Family takes care of family,” they say.
They kept their word for the next three months. At least three bikers would come every morning to walk Tommy to school. Word got around in the motorcycling community, and motorcyclists from other clubs started to join in. Veterans, Christian bikers, and sport bike organizations all worked together to make sure one little child felt safe.
Tommy did well. He stopped having bad dreams. He began to laugh again. He even started telling other youngsters about his “uncles” who rode motorcycles and kept him safe.
The helmet procedure turned into his courage ritual. He would put it on every morning before school and read his father’s words. Then, at the door to the classroom, he would gently pass it to me. He would say, “Take care of Daddy until I get back.”
A parent shared a video of the motorcyclists taking Tommy to school, and the story spread quickly. It got picked up by the news. People from all across the world gave money to Tommy’s education fund. But most importantly, it impacted how people in our town thought about cyclists.
People who used to cross the street when they saw leather vests now waved to the motorcycle escorts in the morning. Businesses in the area began giving the riders free coffee. The school formally made the Widows and Orphans MC partners in their program to teach kids about safety.
But Tommy was the one who changed the most. He told me six months after his initial stroll with a guide that he didn’t need the helmet anymore.
“Mommy, Daddy’s not in the helmet,” he said with the insight of a five-year-old. “He’s in here.” He put his hand on his chest. “And he’s in all the uncles who come to walk with me.” I don’t have to wear him anymore because I carry him around all the time.
We still have the helmet, which we keep in a special place in our living room. The bikers still visit, but not as often as they used to. They just check in to make sure we’re okay. Tommy is seven years old now. He rides his bike with training wheels while a procession of motorcyclists goes by at two miles per hour, teaching him about road safety, camaraderie, and the family you choose.
Tommy asked Bear last week when he could learn to ride a real motorcycle.
Bear said, “When you’re ready, little warrior.” “And we’ll all be there to teach you, just like your dad would have wanted.”
“All of you?” Tommy questioned, staring at the dozen bikers who were in our yard for a Sunday BBQ.
Bear said, “Every last one of us.” “That’s what family does.”
Tommy nodded seriously, then raced out to play. His father’s tradition of brotherhood kept him safe with every step he took.
Jim’s brothers have never left, even though the funeral was three years ago. They came when a widow and her kid needed them the most, and they have never stopped coming.
That’s just how motorcyclists are. They ride together. They are standing together. And they make sure that the family of someone who dies is never alone.
Forty-seven bikers walked my son to kindergarten, and in doing so, they brought us both back to life.
