My son wakes up every morning asking “Motorcycle with Daddy?” and I’ve been saying “When you’re bigger” for two years straight.
Yesterday, his doctor pulled me aside after finding tumors in his brain scan and said we need to start making memories now because he dad just six months left ðŸ˜ðŸ˜ðŸ˜.
This morning when Leo asked “Motorcycle today, Daddy?” for the thousandth time and his little hands making motorcycle sounds, I started to say my usual “When you’re bigger” but the words died in my throat.
Instead, I carried him to the garage, and that’s when he said something that made me realize he already knew he was dying.
“Daddy,” he whispered, running his tiny hand along the gas tank, “I don’t think I’m going to get bigger. Can we please ride now?”
The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, like a three-year-old discussing the weather instead of his own mortality.
My wife was screaming at me from the doorway that I was insane, that Brain cancer kids don’t belong on motorcycles, that the neighbors would call child services. But Leo just looked up at me with those huge brown eyes and said, “Please, Daddy. Before the ouchies in my head get worse.”
That’s when I knew every rule I’d followed, every safety protocol I’d preached, every “responsible parent” decision I’d made meant nothing. Because what kind of father makes his dying son wait for his wish.
But I didn’t know that just taking my own son to ride would take me to jail…..
My name is Marcus “Tank” Williams, and I’ve been riding for twenty-three years. Survived crashes, road rage, torrential storms. But nothing prepared me for the day my three-year-old son Leo was diagnosed with DIPG – a brain tumor that doesn’t give second chances.
Leo’s been obsessed with my Harley since he could walk. His first word wasn’t “mama” or “dada” – it was “vroom.” He’d toddle into the garage and pat my bike like it was a giant pet, making engine noises with his little mouth. His favorite toy was a stuffed motorcycle my wife Sarah made him. He slept with it every night.
“When can I ride with Daddy?” became his daily question.
“When you’re bigger,” I’d always answer, ruffling his dark hair. “Motorcycles are for big boys.”
“I’m getting bigger!” he’d insist, standing on his tiptoes. “See?”
Sarah would laugh from the doorway. “Give Daddy a few more years, baby. He’s just keeping you safe.”
Safe. What a joke that word became.
It started with headaches. Leo would grab his head and cry, saying “ouchie inside.” We thought it was just toddler dramatics. Then came the balance issues – my fearless boy who climbed everything suddenly couldn’t walk straight. The morning he threw up at breakfast and his left eye wouldn’t track properly, we rushed to the ER.
The next eight hours shattered our world. MRIs. Worried looks between doctors. Hushed conversations in hallways. Then Dr. Patricia Chen sat us down in a small room with toys Leo was too tired to play with.
“Diffuse Intrinsic Pontine Glioma,” she said gently. “DIPG. It’s a brain tumor in the pons, the part that controls basic body functions.”
“Treatment options?” Sarah asked, her voice steady even as tears streamed down her face.
“We can try radiation to shrink it temporarily, give him more time. But Mrs. Williams…” Dr. Chen’s voice broke slightly. “There’s no cure. Most children have six to nine months.”
The room spun. Sarah collapsed against me. Leo, exhausted from tests, slept in my arms, his small body feeling impossibly fragile.
“How long before he… before symptoms get worse?” I managed to ask.
“Every child is different. Some maintain quality of life for months, others decline quickly. My advice? Make memories. Say yes more than no. Let him experience everything you safely can.”
That night, I sat in my garage staring at my Harley while Sarah slept fitfully upstairs, Leo between us in our bed because we couldn’t bear to let him sleep alone. The bike had always represented freedom to me. Now it felt like a monument to all the promises I’d never keep.
“When you’re bigger.” How many times had I said that? How much bigger did he need to be when bigger might never come?
The next morning, Leo woke up and immediately asked, “Motorcycle with Daddy today?”
I almost said my usual line. Then I remembered Dr. Chen’s words: “Say yes more than no.”
“You know what, buddy? Yes. Let’s ride.”
Sarah looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Marcus, he’s three. He has a brain tumor. You can’t—”
“He’s dying,” I said quietly, the words tasting like poison. “He’s been asking for two years. I’m not making him wait anymore.”
I spent the morning modifying my riding setup. Found a special harness designed for small children, tested it a dozen times with a teddy bear. Bought the smallest DOT-approved helmet I could find and padded it extra. Installed grip handles at his height. Made the bike as safe as possible for the slowest, shortest ride in history.
When I carried Leo to the garage after lunch, his eyes went wide. “Really riding? Not pretend?”
“Really riding,” I confirmed, helping him into the harness that would strap him securely to my chest. “But we follow Daddy’s rules, okay? Hold on tight, stay very still, and tell me if anything hurts.”
The helmet was still too big despite the padding, but his grin underneath it could have powered the city. I lifted him onto the bike, then climbed on myself, securing him against me. His little hands gripped the handles I’d installed.
“Ready, co-pilot?”
“READY!” he shouted, vibrating with excitement.
I started the engine, keeping it at the lowest possible rumble. Leo gasped with pure joy, his whole body tensing with thrill. We rolled out of the garage at walking pace, me duck-walking the bike more than riding it.
But to Leo, we were flying.
“VROOOOM!” he yelled, his voice muffled by the helmet. “GO FAST, DADDY!”
“This is fast enough, buddy,” I said, creeping down our empty residential street at 5 mph.
We made it around the block twice, me sweating bullets despite the cool air, terrified of every tiny bump. Leo narrated the entire journey: “There’s Mrs. Johnson’s cat! There’s the red mailbox! Look, Daddy, birds!”
When we finally pulled back into our driveway, Sarah was standing on the porch, phone in hand – probably ready to call 911. But when she saw Leo’s face as I lifted off his helmet, her anger melted.
“MOMMY, I RODE DADDY’S MOTORCYCLE!” he screamed, his face glowing with more life than we’d seen since the diagnosis. “I’M A BIKER NOW!”
That’s when he said the words that broke me: “Thank you for not waiting until I’m bigger, Daddy.”
Sarah turned away, shoulders shaking. I held Leo tighter, breathing in his little boy smell – shampoo and graham crackers and something uniquely him.
“Can we go again tomorrow?” he asked.
“Where do you want to go?”
His forehead scrunched in thought. “Ice cream shop? The park? Grandma’s house? Oh! The fire station to show the firefighters!”
“We’ll make a list,” I promised. “Write down everywhere you want to ride.”
That night, Leo sat at his tiny table with crayons, tongue poking out in concentration, making his list. Most of it was illegible toddler scrawl, but I could make out “ZOO” and “DUCKS” and what might have been “MOUNTAIN” – which gave me pause.
“That’s quite a list, little man,” Sarah said, having made peace with our new reality. “Daddy’s going to be busy.”
“Daddy’s bike goes everywhere,” Leo said confidently. “Right, Daddy?”
“Everywhere you want to go,” I agreed.
Over the next weeks, we became a familiar sight in our small town – the big biker with the eye patch (lost the eye in Afghanistan, different story) and the tiny boy strapped to his chest, put-putting through streets at grandma speeds. The ice cream shop started giving Leo free cones. The fire station let him sit on the trucks after our “ride” there. The park ducks got used to the rumble of our arrival.
Other parents judged, of course. Whispered at pickup about “that reckless father” and “what kind of example.” One woman confronted me directly at the grocery store.
“I saw you with that baby on your motorcycle,” she hissed. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”
“He’s dying,” I said simply, too tired for tact. “Brain cancer. He’s got maybe six months, and all he wants is to ride with his daddy. So yeah, I know exactly how dangerous life is.”
She fled without another word.
Leo’s list grew. He added destinations in different colored crayons, some real, some imaginary. “Dragon mountain.” “Where the yellow flowers grow.” “The place with all the flags.” I became a detective, figuring out three-year-old directions to make each ride an adventure.
The radiation therapy started, awful sessions where Leo had to lie still in scary machines. The only way we could get him through was promising a motorcycle ride afterward. He’d emerge nauseated and exhausted, but insist on our ride. Sometimes just to the hospital garden and back, him dozing against my chest, but it counted.
“Motorcycle medicine,” he called it. “Makes the ouchies quieter.”
One morning, he woke up and couldn’t move his left arm properly. The tumor was progressing, stealing pieces of him. Dr. Chen adjusted medications, talked about symptom management. That afternoon, I modified the harness again to support his weakening left side.
“Still wanna ride?” I asked him.
He looked at me like I was crazy. “Daddy, we haven’t been to the butterfly place yet.”
So we rode to the butterfly conservatory forty minutes away, taking back roads, stopping whenever he needed breaks. He couldn’t lift his left arm to point at the butterflies, but his right hand waved frantically. “They’re flying like us, Daddy!”
Sarah started joining sometimes, following in the car with medical supplies, meeting us at destinations. She took thousands of photos – Leo grinning under his helmet, Leo sharing ice cream with me on a bench, Leo “helping” me check the oil.
The worst part was how aware he was. How a three-year-old who should have been worried about cartoon characters and playground drama somehow understood his body was betraying him. He’d pat my face with his good hand and say, “It’s okay, Daddy. We can still ride.”
One evening, as I tucked him in, he asked, “Daddy, will there be motorcycles in heaven?”
I couldn’t breathe. “I… I think so, buddy. Probably really fast ones.”
“Good,” he said, satisfied. “Then I can ride by myself when I’m an angel. But I like riding with you better.”
“Me too, baby. Me too.”
His list kept growing even as his abilities diminished. He added “sunset” and “sunrise” and “where the trains go.” I bought a larger map of the state, and we’d plan routes together, his good hand tracing the roads while I held him steady.
“Big adventure,” he’d say. “Leo and Daddy’s big adventure.”
The day he couldn’t walk anymore, I thought he’d be devastated. Instead, he said, “More time for riding!” Sarah broke down completely that night while Leo slept between us, his breathing labored but steady.
“I can’t lose him,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
“But we’re not losing him today,” I whispered back. “Today we still have him. Today we ride.”
We developed a routine. Morning medications, breakfast (when he could eat), then our ride. Sometimes just around the neighborhood, sometimes to one of his list destinations. Afternoons were for rest, evenings for gentle play. But the rides were sacred.
The town evolved from judgment to support. Business owners would wave from windows. The coffee shop started putting out a little sign: “Leo’s parking spot.” Kids at the park would cheer when we arrived. We became part of the landscape – the dying boy and his biker dad, cramming a lifetime into whatever time remained.
One morning, Leo woke up and couldn’t see properly. The tumor was pressing on his optic nerves. Terror filled his remaining good eye.
“Daddy, I can’t see the motorcycle!”
I carried him to the garage, let him feel every part of the bike. “You don’t need to see it, buddy. You know it by heart. Where’s the handlebar?”
His little hand found it instantly. “There!”
“Where’s the seat?”
Pat, pat. “There!”
“See? The motorcycle is in your hands and your memory. When we ride, you’ll feel everything.”
That day’s ride was different. He couldn’t see the sights, so I became his eyes. “We’re passing the red barn now. Three horses in the field, one’s eating grass. There’s your friend’s house – the one with the blue door. Oak tree on the corner is full of birds today.”
He listened intently, creating pictures from my words. “Tell me about the clouds, Daddy.”
“Big fluffy ones today, like cotton candy. One looks like a dinosaur.”
“A friendly dinosaur?”
“The friendliest. He’s waving at us.”
His good hand tried to wave back.
Two weeks later, he had his first seizure. We were at a red light, thankfully, when I felt him stiffen against me. I got us to the sidewalk, off the bike, holding him through it while calling 911. The EMTs knew us by then – the biker and his sick boy.
“No hospital,” Leo mumbled as he came around. “More ride, please.”
But we went to the hospital. Medication adjustments. Hushed conversations about “comfort care” and “quality of life.” Dr. Chen pulled me aside.
“We’re looking at weeks now, not months. I’m sorry.”
That night, I found Leo’s crayon list and photographed every page. Forty-three destinations, half still uncrossed. Places a three-year-old thought were important. Places that mattered to him.
“We’re not going to make them all,” Sarah said, looking over my shoulder.
“Then we make the ones we can count double,” I decided.
Leo had good days and bad days, but every day included a ride if he was conscious. Five minutes or fifty, around the block or across town. He stopped talking much, saving energy, but his good hand would pat my chest as we rode – constant communication that he was there, feeling it all.
The last item on his list I could decipher was “where Daddy goes.” I puzzled over it for days until Sarah figured it out.
“He means where you go when you ride alone. Your thinking spot.”
My thinking spot was a overlook about an hour away, where I’d go to clear my head after tough days. Pre-dawn rides to watch the sunrise, evening runs to think. I’d never taken anyone there.
“It’s too far,” I protested. “His stamina—”
“Marcus.” Sarah’s voice was firm. “Take him where Daddy goes.”
We left at dawn the next morning, Leo bundled in extra layers, Sarah following in the car with oxygen and medical supplies. He was having a good morning, alert and responsive. The ride took two hours with breaks, but he stayed awake the whole way, his hand constantly patting my chest.
The overlook was empty, morning mist in the valley below. I parked the bike and just sat with him, watching the sun paint the sky pink and gold.
“Where Daddy goes,” Leo whispered, his first words in two days.
“Yeah, buddy. This is where Daddy comes to think.”
“Think about what?”
“You, mostly. How lucky I am to be your dad.”
His hand found my face, clumsy but determined. “Lucky Leo too. Best daddy. Best motorcycle.”
We sat until the sun was fully up, Leo dozing against me, occasionally murmuring happy sounds. Sarah took photos from the car, giving us space for this last perfect moment.
“Home?” I asked finally.
“More places first,” he mumbled. “Not done.”
But he was done. We made it home, and he slipped into unconsciousness that afternoon. The hospice nurse said it could be hours or days. We brought him to his bed, surrounded by his stuffed motorcycle and photos of our rides.
I couldn’t leave his side, but I could hear my Harley in the garage, silent and waiting. Sarah understood.
“Go,” she said. “Take a quick ride. He’d want you to.”
But I couldn’t. How could I ride without my co-pilot?
Leo lasted three more days. On the last morning, he briefly opened his eyes, looked right at me, and made a weak “vroom” sound. Then he was gone, my tiny biker finally riding ahead where I couldn’t follow.
We buried him with his stuffed motorcycle and a photo from our first ride – his face pure joy under that too-big helmet. The funeral was packed, full of people who’d watched our journey. The entire motorcycle club I belonged to showed up, twenty bikes strong, to honor a prospect who’d never grow up to join.
I couldn’t ride for weeks afterward. The bike sat silent in the garage, a 900-pound reminder of every promise kept and adventure shared. Sarah would find me sitting beside it at night, Leo’s helmet in my hands, trying to find him in the smell of leather and oil.
Then one morning, I found something in my jacket pocket – a crayon drawing I’d missed. It was Leo’s attempt at drawing us on the motorcycle, two circles with stick arms, huge smiles, “DADDY + LEO FOREVER” scrawled underneath in his shaky handwriting.
I started the bike that day. Rode to every place on his list we’d made it to, remembering his commentary, his joy, his brave little spirit. At each stop, I’d pause and listen, almost hearing his voice: “Tell me about the clouds, Daddy.”
Now I ride with his picture in my jacket pocket and his memory as my permanent passenger. Other bikers nod respectfully when they see the small helmet hanging from my handlebars – they know it means I’m carrying a ghost.
Sometimes at stoplights, I’ll see a parent with a young child staring at my bike, the kid’s eyes full of wonder. I always wave, rev the engine a little if the parent seems cool with it. Because Leo taught me something:
Life isn’t about waiting until they’re bigger. It’s about making memories while you can, breaking rules when love demands it, and understanding that sometimes the most dangerous thing you can do is play it safe.
“When you’re bigger” is a luxury not everyone gets. Leo never got bigger, but he lived bigger in three and a half years than most do in ninety. He rode with his daddy, felt the wind, chased sunrises, and knew adventure.
And that’s enough. It has to be.
Because how do you tell a three-year-old he’s running out of time? You don’t. You strap on helmets, start the engine, and you ride. You ride until the road runs out, and then you carry their spirit with you on every mile after.
Best daddy. Best motorcycle. Best three and a half years of my life.
Ride free, little man. Daddy’s still here, telling everyone about the clouds.
