“There’s words too!” Tommy shouted, his voice muffled by the helmet. “It says… it says…” His voice cracked. “It says ‘Be brave, little warrior. Daddy’s watching.’”
The other bikers had formed a path from our door to the street, creating a corridor of leather and chrome. Each man stood at attention, some visibly fighting tears.
“All of you?” I asked, looking at the dozens of men lining our walkway.
“Every available brother,” Bear confirmed. “We’ve got a rotating schedule worked out. Brothers from three states have signed up. Tommy will never walk alone.”
I wanted to protest, to say it was too much, that they didn’t owe us anything. But Tommy had already grabbed Bear’s hand and was pulling him toward the door.
“Come on, Mr. Bear! If we don’t leave now, I’ll miss morning circle time!”
This from the child who’d been screaming about school for three weeks.
The walk to kindergarten was surreal. Forty-seven bikers walking in formation around one small boy wearing an oversized helmet, their heavy boots creating a rhythm on the sidewalk. Cars stopped. People came out of houses. Someone started filming.
Tommy walked in the center, his dinosaur backpack bouncing, one hand holding mine and the other clutching Bear’s massive fingers. Every few steps, he’d touch the helmet and whisper something I couldn’t hear.
When we reached the school, the principal, Mrs. Henderson, was standing outside with what looked like the entire staff. Her hand was over her mouth, tears streaming down her face.
That’s when I learned something else. Jim had been secretly teaching motorcycle safety at the school, volunteer work he’d never mentioned. The kindergarten classroom had a “Motorcycle Monday” program where he’d read books about bikes and teach kids about road safety.
Continue reading…
