The motorcyclist with grease all over him, who everyone warned me about, fixed my daughter’s wheelchair for free and then left before I could thank him properly.
For three years, I watched him from across the street at Mike’s Cycle Shop and told my kids to stay away from “that dangerous man with all the tattoos.” When his motorcycle rumbled by, I held on to my purse even closer.
I even phoned the cops once when too many motorcyclists showed up at his store. But when my insurance company turned down the $4,000 repair that would let my disabled daughter walk again, he was the only person in town who helped.
Later, I learned that he had spent eighteen hours straight changing the wheelchair with motorcycle parts, making something that shouldn’t have functioned but did.
When I went to get it that morning, I was bleary-eyed from crying all night about money we didn’t have. The wheelchair sat outside my van with a message that said, “Every kid deserves to chase their dreams.” No cost. – “Big Mike.”
My daughter could suddenly get things again. Get up. Get around without pain. The hydraulic system he built from Harley parts was better than anything the medical firms made.
But
The police chief, whom I had phoned about him, just shook his head and said, “You people never knew who you had living among you.”
Everyone I interviewed had a different piece of the puzzle, but they all told the same thing: “Don’t go looking for Big Mike.” He doesn’t want to be found.
But
And I finally learned his story, which made me cry since he used to be a serial killer, but…
My name is Caroline Mitchell, and I used to be the kind of person who would cross the street when bikes came near. This is the story of how a rough, tattooed mechanic taught me the most important lesson of my life and why I spent six months looking for him all over the country to say thank you.
The day Lily’s wheelchair broke was the beginning. My daughter was born with spina bifida, and when she was twelve, she was very independent. Her specialized wheelchair gave her freedom. It included hydraulics that helped her lift herself up to reach objects, stand for transfers, and feel less small in a world made for individuals who could walk.
When the lift broke down, the medical supply business told us it would cost $4,000 to fix it. The insurance company deemed it “maintenance” and refused to pay. We have exactly $247 in the bank.
I called every charity, group, and church in town for two weeks. Nothing at all. Lily acted like everything was OK, but I could see that she was having a hard time getting to her desk at school and getting items off the shelf. She was suffering in silence, as she always did.
She kept saying, “Mom, it’s okay,” but twelve-year-olds shouldn’t have to be so courageous.
The morning I found Mike was like any other day when I was feeling hopeless. I was passing past the bike shop where I had warned my kids for three years. I would say, “There are dangerous people there.” “Those bikers are bad news.”
But when you’re desperate, you think things over. There was a sign in Mike’s store that said, “We Fix Anything With Wheels.”
I waited in my van for twenty minutes, trying to get up the nerve. I could see him through the open doors of the store. He was huge, covered in tattoos, and had grease under his nails. He looked just like what I thought of when I thought of a “dangerous biker.” He was working on a Harley with loud music playing and a lot of tough-looking guys in leather vests about him.
In the end, being a mother won out over fear. I pushed Lily’s shattered chair through the door.
The music stopped. Everyone looked. I felt like a sheep going into a wolf’s cave.
“Help you?” Mike’s voice sounded like gravel and smoke. He was even scarier up close: he was six feet four inches tall, had arms like tree trunks, and had a scar across his left eyebrow.
“It’s… It’s the wheelchair my daughter uses. It’s not working. The lift doesn’t operate. I saw that you fix motorcycles, but the sign reads “anything with wheels,” so I figured…
I was talking too much. The other bikers looked at each other. Someone mumbled something that sounded like “Not again, Mike.”
Mike went down next to the wheelchair and looked at the mechanism with his huge hands, which were surprisingly delicate. He moved the controls, listened to the engine, and nodded to himself.
“The hydraulic system is broken.” Needs to be completely rebuilt. He stood up and wiped his hands on a cloth. “Let it go.” I’ll do what I can.
“How much?” I inquired, even though I knew I couldn’t afford what he would say.
He just shrugged. “Depends on the parts.” “Come back tomorrow.”
I felt stupid when I left. What was going through my mind? A motorbike mechanic working on medical equipment? But I didn’t have any other choices.
I didn’t sleep that night. Lily didn’t either, but she acted like she did. I heard her softly crying, like kids do when they think their parents can’t hear them.
At 7 AM the next day, I drove by the store. The lights were already on. I could see Mike working on Lily’s chair through the glass. He was surrounded by motorbike components and technical books. He had been there all night.
I was ready to go in when another biker stopped me. The man said, “Let him work.” “When Big Mike is like this, you don’t talk to him.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
The rider looked me over for a second. “You don’t know about his daughter, do you?”
Mike came out and pushed the wheelchair before he could explain. But the chair wasn’t the same. He had entirely rebuilt it using motorcycle equipment, such as Harley hydraulics, unique controls, and a stronger frame. It was better than the original, better than new.
“Just try it,” he added.
I sat down in the chair and tried out the lift. Perfectly smooth and strong. The controls were easier to use, and the response was instant. He had even incorporated features that the original didn’t have, like a smoother tilt function, better stability, and grip cushioning where Lily’s hands would rest.
“This is… this is amazing,” I said. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing.” He turned around and went back inside.
“Wait! I owe you something. The pieces alone—
“Lady, your child needs a chair that works. She has one. That’s it for us.
“Please, let me—”
He paused and turned around. I noticed something more than the rough outside for the first time. Pain. Pain that has been there for a long time.
He remarked in a low voice, “My daughter was in a chair for three years before she died.” “Bone cancer.” Saw her struggle with tools that were never quite perfect, always breaking, and insurance that fought every improvement. He looked at the wheelchair that had been fixed. “This is what I wanted to make for her, but I never had the time.” Please let me do this.
He then went inside and closed the door.
I was crying in my van. The scary biker I had told my kids about had just spent the whole night making something lovely for a youngster he had never met, and he wouldn’t take any money for it.
When I went home, Lily’s happiness over her new chair broke my heart in the finest way. She could get to everything, move about easily, and feel free again. She laughed for the first time in a long time.
The next day, I went back to thank Mike the right way. The store was closed. Not just closed, but empty. Cleared out by morning. “Moved On—Mike” was scribbled on a sign on the door.
The other business owners said he did this. He lived in a town for a few years, helped people, and then left when someone tried to make a big deal out of how nice he was.
The proprietor of the hardware business said, “He can’t handle it, thanks.” Something about the death of his daughter broke him like that. He helps youngsters in chairs wherever he goes, then leaves before anyone can thank him.
That’s when I made the choice to look for him.
It took six months. I followed him through bike shops, medical equipment stores that suddenly got anonymous contributions of wheelchair parts, and families whose kids miraculously got free repairs. A trail of gentle kindness across seven states.
I finally discovered him in a little Colorado town, where he was working at a different cycle store under a different identity. He noticed me through the window, and his shoulders dropped. He knew they had discovered him.
“Why?” I just asked. “Why run away from thanks?”
He didn’t say anything for a long time, and his hands were still working on a motorcycle engine. My daughter Emma used to say thank you for everything. A glass of water. Do homework for them. Pushing her chair. Even when the agony was intense at the end, she would still mutter “thank you, Daddy” every time I moved her.
His voice broke. “That was the last thing she spoke to me. “Thanks for trying, Dad.” Like I had done enough. Like I hadn’t let her down.
I added softly, “You didn’t fail her.”
“Couldn’t save her.” Couldn’t even help her feel better. All of my abilities and strength are useless. He eventually turned to me. “So now I fix chairs. Do them right. Give them what Emma deserved. When people try to praise me, all I hear is her voice, and I can’t… I just can’t.
I took out my phone and showed him a video. Lily in her adapted chair, reaching for high shelves at school, rising up to embrace her friends, and racing her brother down the street.
I answered, “That’s not failing.” “That’s Emma living on in every child you help.”
He viewed the movie three times, and tears ran down his face, cutting through the oil.
I told him, “She wants to be an engineer.” “She says she wants to make wheelchairs like the one that fixed hers. “I told her that she might be able to meet you one day.
“I don’t know if I can—”
“We’re not asking for anything,” I said. “Just wanted to let you know that Lily named her chair Emma.” Said that any chair that exquisite needed a perfect name. Mike, your daughter is still assisting kids. “Through you.”
He broke down suddenly, this huge man who had scared me so greatly that I had switched streets to stay away from him. I held him while he cried, mourning a daughter whose death had turned him into an angel in leather and grease.
Mike came back to our town. Not forever; he still walks around and fixes chairs for kids who need them. But he goes to see Lily a lot and teaches her about engineering and hydraulics. He also shows her how to change and make mobility aids better.
Lily stood up in her chair at her high school graduation last year and thanked the people who had helped her succeed. Mike had made numerous improvements to the chair since then. The whole auditorium went crazy as she called Mike to the stage. Half of the kids there had profited from his late-night fixes, his calm kindness, and his determination to let any child struggle with defective equipment.
Of course, he tried to flee. Old ways. But this time, three hundred people weren’t going to let him get away.
Lily stated into the microphone, “My honorary uncle taught me that angels don’t always have wings.” “Sometimes they ride motorcycles, have tattoos, and have oil under their nails. People tell us to keep away from them sometimes. You set me free, Mike. You set a lot of us free. Emma would be very happy.
That was it. Mike stood there, crying, as every kid he had assisted rolled, walked, or sprinted up to hug him. Years of grief that had been kept to myself eventually letting love in.
He still goes places, fixes chairs in the middle of the night, and tries to leave before the thank-yous come. But now he has a picture of Lily in her chair, reaching for the stars, with the name “Emma” scrawled on the side.
And sometimes, only sometimes, he stays long enough to hear the thanks. To know that not every “thank you” is a sign of loss, but proof that love grows when it is shared.
Mike taught me something important: never judge someone by how they seem. People who look the most threatening can have the kindest souls. And sometimes the guy who scares you the most on the street is the one you need when your child needs help.
Now, when I see a biker, I wonder what type of kindness is lying under the leather. What anguish they’re turning into purpose. What judgments am I making that keep me from seeing angels in disguise?
Mike taught me that. And what about Lily? She is in her second year of engineering school and is making adapted tools for students who need them. She rides there on a motorcycle that Mike helped her change to fit her needs. It’s the only adaptable Harley in the state.
It turns out that the bad biker I told my kids about became the hero who showed them that everything is possible. It only cost me my bias and the ability to see the person underneath.
Some lessons are not too expensive. The significant ones will cost you all you thought you knew. Every cent is worth it.
