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The little girl asked if I could be her daddy until she dies but I refused because of one thing. Those were her exact words. Seven years old, sitting in a hospital bed with tubes in her nose, and she looked up at me—a complete stranger, a scary-looking biker—and asked if I’d pretend to be her father for however long she had left.
I’m a 58-year-old biker named Mike. I’ve got tattoos covering both arms, a beard down to my chest, and I ride with the Defenders Motorcycle Club.
I volunteer at Children’s Hospital every Thursday reading books to sick kids. It’s something our club started doing fifteen years ago after one of our brother’s granddaughters spent months in pediatric oncology.
