They restored Dale’s 1987 Harley-Davidson completely. New engine, new paint, chrome shining. Then they put it in storage with a title in Emmett’s name. When Emmett turns sixteen, it’s his. Along with a letter from Dale that he’d written during one of his last lucid days.
Nobody knows what the letter says. Dale sealed it himself. But Repo was there when Dale wrote it, and he said Dale was crying the whole time.
But his room is decorated with pictures of bikers. His favorite jacket is a tiny leather vest that Dale’s brothers made for him, with a patch that says “Dale’s Little Brother.” And every night before bed, Jessica or Marcus holds him close and makes that sound.
The motorcycle rumble.
Low and deep, coming from the chest.
The sound that says: you’re safe. I’ve got you. Rest now.
The sound of a biker who loved a toddler he held for six hours.
The sound of a hero in leather.
Marcus had the photo from the hospital printed large. It hangs in their living room. Emmett points to it every single day.
“That’s Dale,” Jessica tells him every time. “He was very sick, but he held you when nobody else could help. He gave you peace. Someday, you’ll ride his motorcycle. And you’ll understand what it means to be a biker. It means you show up when people need you. It means you use whatever strength you have left to help. It means you’re never too sick, too tired, or too scared to hold someone who’s hurting.”
Emmett understands more now. He asks questions. “Dale was sick?” “Dale rode bike?” “Dale loved me?”
And the answer to that last question is always the same: “Yeah, little man. Dale loved you so much.”
When Emmett has hard days—when the sensory input is too much, when his autism makes the world overwhelming—Jessica or Marcus holds him close and makes the rumble. And Emmett makes it too now, this back-and-forth sound between parent and child, learned from a dying biker who just wanted to help.
Snake visits most often. He’s become sort of a godfather to Emmett, this gruff 72-year-old biker who never had kids of his own. He teaches Emmett about motorcycles, shows him pictures of Dale on his bike, tells him stories.
“Your buddy Dale,” Snake says, “he was the best of us. And you brought out the best in him, little man. You gave him a reason to keep fighting in those last days. You gave him purpose. That’s a gift.”
Emmett doesn’t fully understand yet. But he will.
And when he’s sixteen and the Iron Wolves hand him the keys to a restored 1987 Harley-Davidson, along with a sealed letter from a man who died holding him, he’ll understand completely.
Dale Murphy died at 68 years old, four months after his diagnosis, five days after holding a scared toddler. He left behind four children, eleven grandchildren, forty-three brothers who’d ride through hell for him, and one five-year-old boy with autism who learned that safety sounds like a motorcycle and feels like a biker’s arms.
On Dale’s headstone, the Iron Wolves put a simple inscription:
“Dale ‘Ironside’ Murphy Iron Wolves MC 1955-2024 He held them when they hurt He showed up when nobody else could He proved love wears leather Rest easy, brother. Your rumble lives on.”
But the real memorial isn’t stone.
It’s a five-year-old boy who falls asleep every night to the sound of parents humming like a motorcycle engine.
It’s a restored Harley waiting in storage for the day Emmett is old enough to understand what it means.
It’s forty-three bikers who will make damn sure Emmett knows his second father. The one who held him for six hours. The one who was dying but chose to give life.
And it’s Jessica and Marcus, who tell everyone they meet: “Don’t judge the leather. Don’t judge the tattoos. Don’t judge the motorcycles. Because the man who saved our family was dying, and he wore all three. And he was the most beautiful human I’ve ever known.”
Dale thought he’d die alone, just another old biker.
Instead, he died holding a child who’d learned to trust again because of him.
And that child will carry his story forward, one humming lullaby at a time.
One motorcycle ride at a time.
One lesson at a time about what it really means to be a biker:
You show up.
You hold them while they hurt.
And you give everything you have left, even if it’s just six hours, to make sure nobody faces the scary world alone.
That’s what Dale did.
That’s what bikers do.
And someday, that’s what Emmett will do too.
Because he’ll remember.
Maybe not the exact moment, but he’ll remember the feeling.
The feeling of being held by someone who was dying but still had enough strength to make a scared little boy feel safe.
That feeling is everything.
And it’s rumbling forward, one heartbeat at a time.
One ride at a time.
One biker teaching one boy that love wears leather and heroes don’t always look like heroes.
They just show up.
And hold you.
And make the world a little less scary.
That’s Dale’s legacy.
That’s Emmett’s inheritance.
And that’s why, sixteen years from now, when a young man with autism climbs onto a 1987 Harley-Davidson and opens a letter from a biker who died when he was two, the world will hear that motorcycle rumble and know:
Dale Ironside Murphy is still here.
Still holding them.
Still showing up.
Still proving that the best of us wear leather and give everything they have left to make sure nobody hurts alone.
Rev it up, Emmett.
Dale would be so proud.
Your big brother is riding with you.
Always.
