I followed them.
Their booth was elaborate. Posters showing sick kids receiving toys. Photo albums of twenty years of charity runs. A donation box that was already half full.
The bearded biker—who’d introduced himself as Thomas—nodded. “We’ve raised over $300,000 over the years. Every penny goes to toys for sick kids.”
“Why don’t more people know about this?”
“Because they see us and cross the street,” another biker said. “Hard to tell people about your charity work when they won’t make eye contact.”
I felt ashamed. In thirty years as a cop, I’d hassled plenty of bikers. Pulled them over for being loud. Assumed they were dealing drugs or causing trouble. Never once had I considered they might be the good guys.
“Can I help?” I asked. “With the toy run?”
Thomas smiled. “Everyone’s welcome. That’s the point.”
A month later, I stood at the entrance of Westfield Shopping Center directing traffic for the toy run. Three hundred bikers showed up. They filled two trucks with toys.
The three girls from that day were there too, volunteering, helping load toys.
But they should have written: “Heroes Who Everyone Judges By Their Appearance Continue Being Heroes Despite Society’s Prejudice.”
Because that’s the real story.
The Guardians MC saved those girls that day. But they’d been saving people for years. Quietly. Without recognition. Without thanks.
Continue reading…
