I Grew Up in Four Foster Homes — But It Was a Motorcycle Group That Finally Showed Me What Family Means
The Individual Who Discovered Me in the Dumpster
Big Mike’s size isn’t the first thing that comes to mind, but he was hard to overlook at six feet four and with linebacker shoulders.
It wasn’t the arms covered in faded military tattoos or the beard that extended halfway down his chest that revealed tales he never discussed. I recall his voice interrupting my half-sleep in the dumpster outside his motorbike shop at five in the morning.
“You hungry, child?”
I had jolted awake, frightened, and prepared to flee. I learned from my three weeks on the streets that when grownups asked questions, it was always a sign of trouble—either police officers who would take me back to foster care or worse, people with worse motives.
However, Mike simply stood in the alley with a sandwich in one big hand and a cup of coffee in the other, staring at me as if discovering a fourteen-year-old sleeping in his trash was the most commonplace thing in the world.
Without waiting for a response, he said, “Come inside.” “It’s cold outside.”
I ought to have ran. All of my instincts told me to run. However, I was exhausted, hungry, and sick of being scared. In order to enter the life that might save me, I followed this enormous stranger inside Big Mike’s Custom Cycles.
The Start
With undertones of coffee and leather, the shop smelt like metal and motor oil. Every available space was filled with motorcycles in various disassembled stages.
Pegboards held tools in an orderly fashion that implied military accuracy. A radio played softly in the corner; it wasn’t the rock music I had anticipated, but rather a strange yet reassuring classical tune.
Mike pointed to a stool and gave me the sandwich, which was turkey and cheese on fresh bread and not at all like the rotting crusts I had been eating from his dumpster for the previous week.
“Eat,” he urged plaintively.
I consumed food. God, I ate as if I might never see food again, which only an hour before had seemed possible. Mike didn’t ask questions that I wouldn’t have been able to respond to anyhow; he just watched while drinking coffee.
The first crucial thing he asked after I was done was, “You know how to wield a wrench?”
Now that he had performed his nice deed, I shook my head, waiting for him to order me to go.
“Want to know?”
Everything changed with those three words.
He didn’t ask for my identity; I would later find out that Mike never asked inquiries that could coerce someone into lying.
He didn’t inquire as to why I was sleeping in his dumpster or where I came from. He simply gave me a socket wrench, demonstrated the correct grip, and got me to work assisting him in rebuilding a Harley engine.
For the majority of that first day, we worked in silence. Sometimes Mike would adjust my tool grip, explain what he was doing, or give me a grunt of appreciation when I worked something out on my own. He took a twenty-dollar cash out of his wallet at the end of the day.
“Well done,” he said. “If you would like to return tomorrow, the shop opens at six.”
I held on to that twenty as if it were a hundred, as if it were my salvation. “Thank you, sir.”
“Mike is doing well. I feel elderly, sir.
I slept behind the store again that night, but this time I was stuffed and had cash in my pocket.
The shop’s back door was unlocked when I woke up in the morning, stiff and shivering. A cot with a brand-new-looking blanket and pillow was put up inside the storage area.
Mike had already arrived and was brewing his coffee. When I walked in, he gave me a quick look, gave me a single nod, and returned to his job. We didn’t bring up the cot.
We didn’t say that it was obvious he had set it up for me or that it was a bad idea to leave his door unlocked in this neighborhood.
We simply left for work.
The Household
Around noon, the other bikers began to arrive. When they got there, I thought I would be made to leave because Mike probably hadn’t told these guys about the homeless boy he had allowed to sleep in his storage area.
However, Snake only growled and glanced at me when he entered, all leather and chains, with a scar down his face that should have been terrifying.
The new shop rat, you?”
Unsure of what else to do, I nodded.
Have you eaten anything today?”
“I had coffee—”
“That ain’t eating.” He vanished and returned twenty minutes later with enough Chinese food for three, then ate with Mike and me as if this were all very usual.
The next person to arrive was Preacher, a slender man with gray hair and piercing eyes that appeared to look straight through you. He pulled out a worn novel and sat himself on a stool.
He tossed me the book and said, “Read to me, kid.” “I like company while working, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
I had read “The Old Man and the Sea” in school before everything fell apart, when I was a different person living a different life. I stumbled over words I should have known because my reading was rusty.
“Listen to it,” Preacher stated calmly. “Take your time. There is no hurry.
So I read, and he listened, asking me what I believed certain sections meant or correcting my pronunciation at times.
In retrospect, I see that he was teaching me not just how to read but also how to think critically and analyze things—things I had lost interest in when my sole concern was surviving.
The last to come was Bear, a huge man who dwarfed Mike. After giving me a nod, he let a grocery bag fall onto the workbench.
“These don’t fit our boy anymore,” he stated sternly, quoting his wife. “I thought you might be able to use them.”
The bag was filled with clothing, including a winter jacket, pants, and t-shirts. All about my size. All distinctly brand-new, with their tags still on.
“Thank you,” I said, my throat constricted.
“Don’t bring it up.” Bear’s voice was gruff. “Are you assisting Mike here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. He requires it. The place is never tidy.
Mike gave a snort. “The location is well-organized. You simply lack the intelligence to look for anything.
“As well-organized as my garage, which is to say not at all.”
As I gathered equipment, learned, and tried not to cry at the fact that strangers were treating me better than my own foster homes had ever been, they quarreled like that for hours while working on their individual motorcycles.
The Guidelines
Mike finally posed the question I had been dreading after six months: “You got somewhere else to be, kid?”
We were getting ready to go to bed. For six months, I had been working in the shop every day and sleeping in the storage area every night, living in a weird state of limbo where I was secure but unofficial, assisted yet unclaimed.
“No, sir.”
Mike was silent for a while. So you’d better keep that room tidy, I suppose. The health inspector arrives; he dislikes mess.
I suddenly had a place to call home. Mike couldn’t lawfully take in a runaway without informing the authorities, who would then reintegrate me into the system. However, Big Mike’s Custom Cycles became mine in every manner that mattered.
But regulations were necessary for a home. The following morning, Mike made that very evident.
Over breakfast, which consisted of bacon, eggs, and real food that he had prepared on the hot plate in the office, he declared, “You’re going to school.”
“I don’t—”
“Not negotiable.” Education is essential for all men. I’ll drive you there and then come get you. You’re leaving.
And he did. Every morning at seven thirty, Dad pulled up to the middle school on his Harley with me on the back, while other children came in their parents’ SUVs. Mike never seemed to notice or care that the large biker was dumping off this scrawny boy, despite the intense stares.
He would say, “Pick you up at three,” each day. “Don’t force me to come find you.”
School was challenging. I should have been in serious trouble because I had skipped weeks of classes and had no formal records at this institution.
I never inquired how Mike had managed to work it out with the administration, but I never knew. All I knew was that I had an eighth-grade desk, teachers who helped me catch up, and a counselor who came by frequently but never probed too deeply.
Work was the second rule. According to Mike, “every man needs to know a trade.” “You should be able to work with your hands, mend things, and construct things, regardless of what else you do with your life. That is true security.
I thus gained knowledge. How to start from scratch while rebuilding an engine. How to weld. How to use sound alone to diagnose issues. How to make chrome shine by sanding, painting, and polishing.
Mike was kind but strict, expecting perfection and never settling for “good enough” when I could do better.
Sunday dinner was the third rule. Mike stated plainly, “Family eats together.”
However, our family consisted of thirty bikers who expected me to be present every Sunday when they arrived at the clubhouse with food and stories.
They would debate loudly about politics, motorcycles, and whether Die Hard was a Christmas movie, quiz me on my homework, and threaten to knock my ass if my grades dropped.
It was noisy, tumultuous, and occasionally frightening when they forgot I was there and began discussing topics I probably shouldn’t have heard. However, it was also the closest thing I had ever known to family.
The Advancement
When Mike discovered me browsing through some of his business documents one evening—contracts with parts suppliers, legal agreements for the shop, and other stuff I definitely shouldn’t have been looking at but couldn’t help but be fascinated about—he said, “You’re smart.”
Startled at being captured, I looked up. “I apologize; I was just—”
“Scary smart,” he added, disregarding my apology. “Much more intelligent than a grease monkey like me.” You have the potential to be more.
I said, “There’s nothing wrong with being like you,” with full intention.
Mike’s hand ruffled my hair and was soft on my head. “Thank you, child. However, you have the capacity for something greater than this store. We will ensure that you make use of it.
“We” ended up being the whole club. Snake covered the expense of SAT preparation classes when I didn’t have the money.
Preacher, who later revealed that he had been an engineer before burning out and finding peace with the group, spent hours tutoring me when I needed help with complex math. Bear’s wife assisted me in applying for waivers when college applications needed payment.
In the same manner that family invests in family, they invested in me. That’s what you do for your people, not because they expected anything in return.
Mike planned a party at the clubhouse after I received my acceptance letter from State University with a full academic scholarship. For a seventeen-year-old who had gone from dumpster to college bound, forty bikers arrived with food, drink, and a sincere sense of joy.
That day, Mike shed tears. blamed it on aging, motor fumes, and allergies. However, I witnessed the pride, the tears, and the man who had saved me taking delight in my self-preservation.
When he pulled me into an embrace that made my lungs constrict, he murmured, “You’re going to be something special.” “I always anticipated you would be.”
The Distancing
It was cultural shock at college. Children had vacation houses, trust monies, and parents who worked as executives, doctors, and lawyers.
Children who had never been concerned about where they would get their next meal, who had never slept in a dumpster, or who had never learned how to hot-wire a car in case they had to flee.
They inquired about relatives. I became proficient at deflecting.
How are your parents?”
“Blue-collar work.” Not really fascinating.
“Where are you from?”
“Town small. You wouldn’t be aware of it.
I stopped talking about Mike. ceased discussing Sunday dinners with motorcycle riders. I muttered something about wanting to make a difference when my roommate asked how I became interested in law because, by that point, I had declared myself pre-law after Mike suggested that I “use that brain for something that helps people.”
I omitted to convey my desire to assist children like myself who were overlooked by the system. Even though Mike had never used the phrase, I didn’t add that he had taught me what advocacy looked like.
I didn’t say that a biker who had discovered me in his trash was responsible for everything I was becoming.
That first year, Mike paid two visits. He arrived in his leather and boots, drove eight hours each way on his Harley, and gave me a hug in front of my dorm while my classmates gawked.
“All right?He would inquire, peering into my eyes to find the truth behind my words.
Yes, excellent. The classes are good.
“Are you eating enough? You appear slender.
“The food in the dining hall isn’t very good, but I’m getting by.”
He would give me money, claiming it was for books, but we both knew it was really for food and anything else I might need but didn’t ask for. He would then ride home, and I would resume my act of appearing to be from a respectable place.
It was worse in law school. Everyone is networking, discussing their connections, lawyer parents, and summer internships at prominent law firms. Even though my undergraduate work and top percentile LSAT scores had earned me admission, I still felt like a fraud every day.
I replied that my parents had passed away when they inquired about my family. It was simpler than telling them the truth and than witnessing their disapproval when they learned that I had grown up in a motorcycle gang.
Mike attended my graduation from law school. He arrived wearing his motorcycle boots and his one and only suit, which I later learned had been purchased especially for the event because dress shoes were painful for his feet after years of standing on concrete shop floors.
There was my study group, the people I had worked with, competed with, and gotten to know over the previous three years. “Family friend,” I said when they asked who the large man in the baggy suit was.
No, dad. Not the man who raised me. Just “family friend.”
Mike heard. I know he heard because his eyes flickered with something that might have been hurt before he covered it with a smile. But he didn’t say anything. Just hugged me, told me he was proud, and rode eight hours home alone.
I felt ill about it for days but convinced myself I was constructing a decent life. The kind of existence where individuals like me—people from circumstances like mine—could achieve. That demanded distance from the world I came from, didn’t it?
The Call
Three years into my employment at Brennan, Carter & Associates, one of the leading firms in the state, Mike contacted.
I almost didn’t answer. I’d stopped taking most of his calls, sending him to voicemail and messaging back later with excuses about being busy.
We communicated maybe once a month, and I visited even less. I told myself I was building my career, establishing myself, doing all the things he’d wanted me to accomplish.
I was lying to myself.
“Not asking for me,” Mike remarked when I finally replied, because that’s how he always started when he needed help. As if I wouldn’t immediately know he was asking for himself. “But the city’s trying to shut down the shop.”
I felt my stomach drop. “What?”
“Some development company wants the whole block. City’s calling us a ‘blight on the neighborhood.’ Saying we pull down property prices, that we’re undesirable. They want to push me to sell.”
Forty years. Mike had run that shop for forty years. It was his life, his community’s pillar, the place where kids like me sought safety. And the city planned to pull it down for condos.
“Get a lawyer,” I said, the words spilling out before I thought them through. “Fight it.”
“Can’t afford one good enough to fight city hall.” His voice was tired in a way I’d never heard before. “Son, I am not requesting that you do anything. I just wanted to let you know. Just in case—just in case you wished to bid the location farewell before it disappears.
“I’ll investigate,” I answered, my words ambiguous due to cowardice. “See what I can learn.”
“Thank you.”
We ended the call. I accomplished nothing while I sat at my pricey desk in my opulent office, my law degree hanging on the wall.
I promised myself that I would locate someone who could assist Mike pro gratis, call some colleagues who practiced property law, and so on. I promised myself that as soon as I got time and this situation was resolved, I would go visit.
All of this I told myself while doing nothing at all.
The Tipping Point
My paralegal, Jenny, had to discover me sobbing at my desk before she could help me overcome my self-deception.
“What’s the matter?With sincere concern in her voice, she inquired.
I held up my phone to her. A picture that Snake had given showed Mike sitting on the steps with his head in his hands, looking at every one of his sixty-eight years, and the store with a “CONDEMNED” sign on the door.
Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “That’s the man who raised me.” He took me in when I was fourteen years old and living in his dumpster.
made me who I am, provided me with a home, and sent me to school. And now that the city is removing his store, I’m too cowardly to assist him out of fear that people would discover that I’m simply lucky trailer trash.
Jenny’s face changed from one of worry to one of aloofness. “So you’re not the man I believed you to be.”
She left, leaving me to face the reality of who I had become. The fact that I had left the person who had saved me from my history because I was so determined to get away from it.
I quit my job right away. Without consulting anyone or consulting my schedule, I simply hopped into my car and drove five hours to the shop while still sporting my pricey shoes, tie, and three-piece suit.
When I got there, the clubhouse was packed. There were thirty motorcyclists, all of them older now, some with reading glasses and gray beards, and they all had a defeated and anxious look that I had never seen before.
I realized they were pooling their money. attempting to determine whether they had enough money for a lawyer who could take on the city by counting out crumpled banknotes and coins.
I said from the doorway, “I’ll take the case.”
All heads turned. Despite the years, the outfit, and the space I’d placed between us, Mike looked up with red-rimmed eyes, and I saw the instant he recognized me.
He muttered, “I can’t pay you what you’re worth, son.”
“You did.” My voice cracked. That was 23 years ago. when you didn’t report a dumpster kid to the police.
The Battle
In ways I had never encountered in corporate law, the case was savage. The city had political ties, limitless resources, and a narrative that portrayed Mike’s store as a gang headquarters that brought danger and crime to a developing community.
Diane Morrison, their attorney, was a shrewd lady in her fifties who had most likely never lost a case like this. She hardly gave me a glance throughout our initial hearing.
She said to her assistant, loud enough for me to hear, “It’s cute that they have a real lawyer.” “Won’t matter.” The development has already received approval from the local council. This is merely documentation.
I grinned and remained silent. Allow her to underestimate me. Allow her to believe that I was a novice associate teasing community advocacy.
The purpose of the preliminary hearings was to scare people. Residents were called in by the city to speak about noise issues, how they felt “unsafe” around bikers, and how property values were declining.
I paid close attention to each testimony, made notes, and didn’t say anything. I then began my own research.
I discovered all of the children Mike had aided over the course of four decades—and more than I could have ever dreamed.
mechanics, social workers, physicians, nurses, teachers, and small business entrepreneurs. They had all previously been helpless kids and had all found refuge at Big Mike’s Custom Cycles.
I discovered the senior citizens Mike had assisted—free mobility scooter repairs, stairway grocery carrying, and snow removal from driveways for 20 years.
I discovered the veterans who met in the shop for coffee and company, Mike’s after-hours AA meetings, and the club’s annual Christmas toy runs.
While the city was labeling this neighborhood a blight, I chronicled every philanthropic donation, community service project, every how Mike and his riders had been helping the neighborhood.
The Trial
The last hearing was held in a full courtroom. Lawyers in fancy suits and city officials on one side. Thirty bikers in their old jeans and leather vests, appearing out of place but unbowed, were on the opposite side.
Morrison made a compelling argument for the city. concerns about noise. Property values have dropped. the overall uneasiness that resulted from a “motorcycle gang” in a residential area.
“This has nothing to do with discrimination,” she stated with ease. “It’s about protecting locals from an incompatible business and upholding community standards.”
It was then my time.
I began with the children. One by one, place fifteen of them on the stand. When Mike discovered Doctor Sarah Chen sleeping behind the store, she had been fleeing an abusive household.
Marcus Webb, a teacher who spent two years finishing high school in Mike’s storage room after being expelled by his homophobic parents. Lisa Parks, a social worker, was, like me, a foster system fugitive.
“Mr. In their own words, each of them said, “Mitchell provided me with a secure place to sleep.” He assigned me a job. He forced me to attend school. My life was saved by him.
Morrison attempted to portray it as predatory. “So, Mr. Mitchell frequently took in children who were at risk? Without alerting the authorities? Isn’t that a worrying behavior?”
“No,” Dr. Chen firmly stated. It is a brave act. The government let us down. We were let down by the system. Mike Mitchell did not let us down.
Morrison conveniently forgot to include the old residents, so I brought them in. Eighty-three-year-old Mrs. Patterson stated that Mike had been providing free wheelchair repairs for her husband for ten years.
Mr. Lee, 76, claimed that after his wife passed away, the motorcyclists were the only ones who came to see how he was doing.
I brought in soldiers who had returned from conflicts that had broken them and found a sense of kinship at the shop. I introduced recovered addicts who said that Mike’s AA meetings saved their lives.
I presented invoices for thousands of dollars in toy runs, charitable donations, and veterans’ assistance. I brought in letters from educational institutions expressing gratitude to the club for their yearly scholarship fund.
I played security tape of Mike instructing neighborhood children in the fundamentals of bike maintenance on summer afternoons—always with parental consent, under supervision, and without charge.
Morrison had one more card to play, even though her case was unraveling.
“Mr. “You admit to harboring runaway children in your shop, Thompson,” she said, placing Mike on the stand with a smile that stopped short of her eyes.”
Mike remarked coolly, “I admit to providing food and a safe place to sleep to hungry kids.”
“Without alerting the police? It is abduction, Mr. Mitchell.
“That’s being kind,” Mike told them gently. “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?”
Judge Patricia Reeves, a severe woman in her sixties who had maintained her composure during the trial, gave me a contemplative gaze. “I’ll let it. Mr. Mitchell, please respond to the query.
Across the courtroom, Mike’s gaze met mine. “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 utter silence in the courtroom. Morrison’s countenance changed from triumph to astonishment as she turned to face me.
“You?”I said,” she said. “You’re a project of his?”
I boldly stated, “I am his son,” allowing everyone in the courtroom to hear my pride. “And I feel privileged to be.”
With a little break in her façade of impartiality, Judge Reeves leaned forward. “Is this accurate, Counselor Thompson? 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 “motorcycle gang” provided me with a place to live, forced me to attend school, funded my education, and made me into the attorney you see today. Perhaps we should reinterpret what community is if his store is a “blight on the community.”
The Decision
A 30-minute respite was called by Judge Reeves. Her face was inscrutable when she came back.
She started by saying, “I’ve looked over all the evidence that was presented.” “The city has argued that Big Mike’s Custom Cycles creates noise and draws a particular type of person to the area. Nonetheless, the defense has provided copious proof that Mr. Mitchell and his colleagues have been model citizens for forty years.
She stopped and turned to face Mike. “Mr. Mitchell, you have operated your motorbike business as a sort of unofficial youth services program.
Numerous young individuals in need have benefited from your shelter, work, and mentoring. You have provided assistance to veterans, senior citizens, and others in need. You have made significant contributions to community development and philanthropic causes.
Morrison was grinning a little, obviously anticipating the “however.”
“The evidence not only does not support the city’s contention that your business is a ‘blight’ on this community, but also contradicts it. The community has greatly benefited by Big Mike’s Custom Cycles, according to this court. The condemnation petition is turned down. The store remains open.
It shook the courtroom. Thirty motorcycle riders hugging, sobbing, and cheering as if they had won the jackpot. I didn’t mind when Mike gave me a bear embrace that almost cracked my ribs; I just clung to the man who had saved me and told him that I had saved him.
In my ear, he said, “I’m proud of you, son.” “It has always been. even if you were ashamed of me.
The words were powerful. “I never felt ashamed of you.”
“Yes, you were,” he said, stepping back to gaze at me with kind eyes. That’s alright. It is expected that children will outgrow their parents and desire more than their upbringing. But when it counted, you returned. That’s what matters.
The Veracity
If anyone had bothered to complain, the crowded clubhouse that night would have been in violation of multiple noise rules.
Forty bikers and their families celebrated a triumph that meant more than just keeping a shop open—it meant their home and community survived. There was food, drink, and music.
The audience fell still as I stood up to speak, still wearing my suit even though I had misplaced the tie.
With a voice that echoed throughout, I declared, “I’ve been a coward.” “I’ve been disguising my origins and my upbringing for years, acting as though being among motorcyclists would somehow make me less of a person. In actuality, though, everything positive about me came from this store, these folks, and a man who saw a disposable child and thought he was worth saving.
I examined my father, Mike, from every angle that was relevant. “I’ve finished hiding. Mike, I never informed you that I legally changed my name to David Mitchell ten years ago. Since you are the only parent I have ever truly had, I added your last name.
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 thunderous applause was overwhelming. This time, Mike didn’t attribute the wetness in his eyes to motor fumes. As thirty motorcyclists applauded the dumpster boy who had become a lawyer and had finally stopped feeling ashamed of his origins, he simply drew me into another hug.
The Following
Two years have passed since then. My life has changed.
Pictures from the shop are all over the walls of my office. I’m working on a Harley with Mike. The entire club at a Sunday meal. I’m learning to weld from snakes.
All of the moments I had attempted to bury were now proudly on show when Bear’s wife brought those “clothes her son had outgrown.”
My coworkers are well aware of my origins. The managing partner informed me that my tale reminded him of the reason he became a lawyer in the first place, and certain people respect me more for that.
Others murmur behind my back, presumably curious as to how someone with my background got a job at their esteemed company.
I no longer give a damn.
I ride my bike to the store every Sunday. The year following the trial, Mike taught me how to ride, saying it was past time.
He thought that people expected motorcyclists to solely like rock and roll, so he kept his secret interest from everyone but me. We work on bikes together, with grease under our fingernails and classical music still playing from that old radio.
He once said to me, “Never feel guilty about your preferences.” “Life is too brief to act like someone you’re not.”
I wish I had discovered that lesson two decades prior.
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—whether it is with custody matters, the system, or navigating a society that wants to throw them out.
These days, I virtually exclusively serve pro bono for children in similar circumstances. I would do it anyhow, but my company is in favor of it as the favorable publicity boosts sales. Mike would act in this way. For myself and many of others, Mike accomplished just that.
The Heritage
Mike is now 70 years old. When he is performing intricate repairs, his hands occasionally shake. Names, appointments, and the whereabouts of his reading glasses are among the things he occasionally forgets.
However, he still gives the same bargain he gave me twenty-three years ago, opens the store every morning at five, and checks the dumpster for hungry children.
“Are you hungry? Enter the house.
We discovered another one last month. Having gone four days without eating, the sixteen-year-old was scared, battered, and attempting to steal from the cash register. Mike didn’t dial 911. simply pointed to a wrench and gave her a meal.
“Are you familiar with this?”
I had to turn away as she shook her head, reminding me so much of myself when I was fourteen.
“Want to know?”
She is still there, sleeping in the storage room, learning a trade, attending school on Mike’s Harley, and organizing her life. In the event that our efforts to lawfully remove her from the foster system are unsuccessful, we will look for alternative solutions. You do that for your family, after all.
The store is doing really well. In fact, business grew after the trial and all the publicity. People began to show up specifically because they had heard about Mike, wanted to help him out, and understood that their motorbike repairs were helping to support a worthy cause.
After they finally got to meet the bikers they had been trained to be afraid of, the neighborhood also welcomed us. It turns out that loud pipes and leather jackets don’t define a person’s personality. Things happen.
Engine measurements are still used by Snake to teach math. While he works, Preacher still has children read to him. Inexplicably, Bear’s wife continues to arrive wearing “clothes her son outgrew.”
As a fresh generation of lost children finds family in the most unlikely locations, the Sunday dinners continue.
The Complete Circle
A lawyer from a downtown company called me yesterday. She had been following my pro bono work and had seen the news coverage of the trial two years prior.
She said, “We have a child.” “15, extremely intelligent, is presently bouncing between foster homes that aren’t functioning.” He needs someone who can relate to his situation. Someone with firsthand experience. I had you on my mind.
Today, I got to meet the child. His name is Marcus, and he gave me the same suspicious look that I had observed in my own eyes when I was his age. defensive, irate, and certain that every adult was just another person who will eventually disappoint him.
“Why are you concerned?When I told him I wanted to help, he asked directly. “You’re unfamiliar with me.”
“No,” I concurred. But when I was right where you are, someone took care of me. Someone felt I was worth investing in after seeing past my filth, rage, and fear. It’s my turn to follow suit now.
“What if I make a mistake? What if I’m not valuable?”
“After that, we’ll work things out together. That is the role of family.
He went to see Mike with me. I saw this protective, fearful child enter the store and be greeted by thirty bikers who all smiled at him as if he were important. I saw Mike ask the question that had saved my life while also giving him a meal and a wrench.
“Want to know?”
Tonight, Marcus is sleeping in the storage room. He will begin to understand what it means to have folks who never give up on you when Mike takes him to school on the Harley tomorrow. He will be quizzed on his homework, join the club for Sunday dinners, and discover that home isn’t necessarily traditional and family isn’t always blood.
He’ll have the same opportunity as me. And perhaps one day he will be in a courtroom paying forward what was given to him by standing up for someone else in need.
The Reality
My name is David Mitchell. I work as a senior partner at one of the most prominent law firms in the state. I have a secretary, a corner office, and newsworthy cases.
The child who slept in a dumpster is me, too. A huge biker gave the fugitive a wrench and asked if he wanted to learn how to mend motorcycles. The disposable youngster who learned that sometimes family picks you, that home may be a motorcycle shop, and that sometimes the most tender people are the most frightening.
I now take pride in both aspects of my narrative. The battle that strengthened me and the opportunity to put that strength to action during the rescue. The years I spent in hiding and the day I was no longer ashamed.
My father is Mike. Not legally, not biologically, but in all the ways that matter. He is the man who saved me when the world had abandoned me, who thought I could be more than a fearful child eating trash, and who discovered me when I was lost.
And being his kid makes me more proud than anything else I’ve ever been.
There’s a new sign on the shop door. A smaller one beneath “Big Mike’s Custom Cycles” says, “Second chances given here.” Everyone is welcome.
Because Mike does just that. He has always done that. He offers those who have never had a first chance a second chance.
And dozens of us were able to live lives that were worthwhile because of him.
That legacy is more valuable than any partnership, law degree, or high-profile case. One hungry child at a time, one secure place to sleep, one choice to find value where others see trash—that’s what it means to truly make a difference in the world.
I used to be garbage. discovered in a dumpster, discarded by all the safeguards put in place to keep me safe.
However, Mike noticed something valuable.
I now strive daily to be deserving of that faith, to see in others what he saw in me, and to give those who have never had a second opportunity a second chance.
Because when someone saves your life, you do that.
The remainder of it is devoted to saving others.
That is Big Mike’s Custom Cycles’ lesson. For far too long, I was ashamed of that fact.
And I’m honored to continue that tradition, one damaged child at a time.
