Motorcycle Gang Raised Me Better Than Four Foster Homes Ever Could

My father wasn’t a biker; he was a filthy mechanic who discovered me sleeping in the dumpster of his shop when I was fourteen.

They called him Big Mike, a six-foot-four man with military tattoos on his arms and a beard that reached his chest. He ought to have alerted the police to the escaped child taking his discarded sandwich crusts.

Rather, he revealed me tucked up between trash bags when he opened his store door at five in the morning and shouted the five words that saved my life: “You hungry, kid? Enter the house.

In my three-piece suit, I stand in a courtroom twenty-three years later as the state tries to shut down his motorcycle shop on the grounds that bikers are “degrading the neighborhood.” They are unaware that their prosecutor is the disposable child that this “degrading” biker turned into an attorney.

At my fourth foster home, when the father’s hands wandered and the mother pretended not to notice, I had fled.

It felt safer to sleep behind Big Mike’s Custom Cycles than to spend another night in that house. For three weeks, I had been living on the streets, eating out of trash, and avoiding the police since they would simply put me back in the system.

That was the beginning. He never inquired as to why I was in his trash can. Social services was never called.

When he “accidentally” left the door open at night, he left me a cot in the back room of the store, work to complete, and twenty dollars at the end of each day.

When the other motorcyclists noticed the scrawny boy mopping floors and sorting tools, they began to approach.

With their leather vests, skull patches, and thunder-roaring bikes, they ought to have been frightening. They brought me food instead.

Snake used engine measurements to teach me math. While he worked, Preacher made me read to him and corrected my pronunciation.

Somehow, the clothes Bear’s wife provided that her “son had outgrown” fit me like a glove.

At last, after six months, Mike said, “You got somewhere else to be, kid?”
“No, sir.”

So you’d better keep that room tidy, I suppose. A health inspector dislikes chaos.

I suddenly had a place to call home. Mike was legally unable to adopt a runaway he was fostering. But he became my father in all the important ways.

He established regulations. dad ignored the looks from other parents as dad drove me to school every morning on his Harley.

I was required to study a skill and work in the shop after school “because every man needs to know how to work with his hands.”

I had to go to the clubhouse for Sunday dinners, where thirty motorcyclists would question me on my schoolwork and threaten to kick me if I didn’t get good grades.

One evening, Mike discovered me reading one of his legal paperwork and said, “You’re smart.” “Scary smart.” Like me, you might be more than just a grease monkey.

I said, “There’s nothing wrong with being like you.”

He tousled my hair. “Thank you, child. However, you have the capacity for something greater. We will ensure that you make use of it.

My SAT preparation was funded by the club. They held a celebration that rocked the entire street when I started college. Forty motorcyclists supporting a slender child who received a full scholarship. Mike attributed his tears on the fumes from the engine that day.

It was cultural shock at college. The boy who was abandoned by a motorcycle gang was incomprehensible to children who had summer homes and trust monies.

I ceased bringing up Mike and discussing home. I replied that my parents were deceased when my roommate inquired about my relatives.

Explaining that my father figure was actually a biker who had abducted me from a dumpster was more difficult.

It was terrible in law school. Everyone is networking, discussing their lawyer parents and connections.

I muttered something about blue-collar job when they inquired about mine. Mike arrived to my graduation wearing his motorcycle boots and his one and only suit, which he had purchased especially for the event because dress shoes were painful for his feet.

When my classmates glanced at me, I felt embarrassed. When my study group inquired about him, I described him as “a family friend.”

He didn’t mention anything at all. simply gave me a hug, expressed his pride, and drove home by himself for eight hours.

I was hired by a prestigious company. ceased going to the store as frequently. stopped taking club phone calls. I persuaded myself I was creating a decent life. The kind of existence that would keep me out of the trash can.

Then Mike called three months ago.

He always began by saying, “Not asking for me,” when he needed assistance.

The city is attempting to shut us down, though. claiming that we are a “blight” on the neighborhood. decreasing the value of real estate. They want me to sell to a developer against my will.

Mike had operated that shop for forty years. 40 years of repairing motorcycles for customers unable to pay dealer prices.

Although I later discovered that I wasn’t the first or last child to take refuge in his back room, forty years of covertly assisting fugitives like me.

“Get legal counsel,” I advised.

“Unable to afford one that is capable of taking on city hall.”

I should have made the offer right away. That night, I should have driven down. Instead, I hung up after saying I’d investigate because I was afraid my coworkers would learn about my background.

My paralegal, Jenny, had to discover me sobbing at my desk before she could help me stop. Snake had just sent me a picture of Mike sitting on the steps with his head in his hands, and the store with the “CONDEMNED” sign on the door.

I showed her the picture and said, “That’s the man who raised me.” “And I’m too cowardly to help him because I’m scared people will realize I’m just lucky trailer trash.”

Jenny gave me a disgusted expression. “So you’re not the man I believed you to be.” I was left with the reality of who I had become when she left.

That evening, I took a car to the store. After five hours, I was still wearing my suit when I entered the clubhouse and heard thirty motorcyclists debating whether they could raise enough cash to hire a lawyer.

I said from the doorway, “I’ll take the case.”

Mike’s eyes were crimson when he looked up. “Son, I can’t pay you what you’re worth.”

“You did it already. 23 years in the past. when you didn’t report a dumpster kid to the police.

There was silence in the room. Then Bear said, “Holy sh*t.” Slim? In that monkey outfit, are you?

I was home in an instant.

It was a cruel case. The city had money, contacts, and power. They portrayed the store as a gang hangout and a neighborhood threat. Residents who had never really engaged with Mike or his clients were called in to testify about noise and a sense of insecurity.

However, I had something superior. I knew the truth.

I brought in all the children Mike had subtly aided over the past four decades. Teachers, doctors, social workers, and technicians were all once helpless kids who had sought refuge at Big Mike’s Custom Cycles.

I gave presentations on 23 years of toy runs, veterans’ support rides, and charitable donations. I played surveillance footage showing Mike giving away free repairs for the mobility scooters of senior citizens, teaching neighborhood children the fundamentals of bike maintenance, and holding after-hours AA meetings in his shop.

When I placed Mike on the stand, that was the pivotal moment.

The city’s prosecutor sneered, “Mr. Mitchell, you acknowledge that you have a shop where you keep fugitive kids?”

Mike said plainly, “I admit to providing food and a safe place to sleep to hungry kids.”

“Without alerting the police? Kidnapping is what that is.

“That’s being nice,” Mike clarified. “If you had ever been fourteen and desperate with nowhere to go, you would understand.”

And now, where are these kids? These fugitives you “aided”?

I got to my feet. “Objection. Pertinence?

The judge gave me a glance. “I’ll let it. Mr. Mitchell, please respond to the query.

Mike turned to face me, his eyes brimming with pride. “Your Honor, one of them is right there. My son—by choice, not by blood. He is standing up for me now because, 23 years ago, I kept him around when everyone else did.

There was silence in the courtroom. I caught the prosecutor’s attention.

“You?” she asked. “You’re a project of his?”

“I am his son,” I asserted. “And proud of it.”

The judge leaned forward after remaining icy during the trial. Yes, counselor, is this accurate? You lived at the defendant’s shop when you were homeless.

“Your Honor, I was a disposable child. Living in a dumpster, eating trash, and experiencing abuse while in foster care. My life was spared by Mike Mitchell.

He and his “biker gang” provided me with a place to live, forced me to attend school, covered my tuition, and shaped me into the guy you see today. Perhaps we should redefine community if his store is a “blight on the community.”

A recess was called by the judge. She made her choice when we got back.

There is no proof, according to this court, that Big Mike’s Custom Cycles poses a risk to the neighborhood.

The data actually indicates that Mr. Mitchell and his colleagues have been a significant asset for decades, offering refuge and support to young people who are at risk. The petition from the city is turned down. The store remains open.

It shook the courtroom. Forty riders hugging, crying, and cheering. My ribs almost snapped when Mike gave me a bear hug.

“Son, I’m proud of you,” he muttered. “It has always been. even if you were ashamed of me.

I lied and said, “I was never embarrassed of you.”

Indeed, you were. It’s alright. It is expected that children will outgrow their parents. But when it counted, you returned. That’s what matters.

I took the stage to speak at the clubhouse celebration that evening.

I admitted to being a coward. “I would somehow be devalued if I concealed my origins, my upbringing, and my affiliation with motorcycles. In actuality, though, everything positive about me came from this store, these folks, and a dad who chose to retain a throwaway child.

I examined my father, Mike, from every angle that was relevant.

“I’ve finished hiding. Although I never told you, Mike, I legally changed my name to David Mitchell ten years ago. I work with Brennan, Carter & Associates as a senior partner. I’m also a biker’s son. brought up by motorcycle riders. I feel honored to be a member of this family.

The windows shook with the thunderous applause.

I have pictures from the shop all over the walls of my office today. My coworkers are well aware of my origins. For that, some people appreciate me more. Behind my back, others whisper. I no longer give a damn.

I ride my bike to the store every Sunday. Last year, Mike showed me how to ride and told me it was time for me to learn. He has a secret passion that doesn’t fit the stereotype of a biker, and we work on bikes together as classical music plays on his old radio and we get grease under our fingernails.

Children still occasionally appear, desperate and hungry. Mike provides them with food, employment, and occasionally a place to live. And now they have me to turn to when they need legal assistance.

The store is doing really well. The city withdrew. The neighborhood learned what I had known for twenty-three years—that a man’s character is not determined by his leather and loud pipes—after being forced to actually meet the bikers they had feared. Things happen.

Mike is growing older. Sometimes he forgets things and his hands shake. However, he continues to open the store at five in the morning, look in the dumpster for children who are hungry, and give the same offer: “Are you hungry? Enter the house.

We discovered another one last week. Fifteen, afraid and bruised, attempting to rob the cash register. Mike didn’t dial 911. Just gave him a wrench and a lunch.

“You understand how to use this?” he inquired.
The child gave a headshake.

“Want to know?”

And so it goes on. The motorcyclist who reared me is rearing another disposable child. Teaching me what he taught me: home isn’t a structure, family isn’t blood, and often the most frightening individuals have the most compassionate hearts.

My name is David Mitchell. I practice law. My father is a motorcyclist.

And I’ve never been more proud of my heritage.