This Seven Year Old Girl Begged Me To Protect Her From Her Dangerous Father

The little girl couldn’t have been more than seven, standing beside my Harley in the Walmart parking lot with tears streaming down her face, clutching a crumpled piece of notebook paper.

She was alone, trembling in the Texas heat, her Frozen backpack hanging off one tiny shoulder.

“Mister,” she whispered, looking up at me with the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen, “are you a real biker? Like the ones on TV who hurt people?”

My leather vest, covered in Marine Corps patches and thirty years of riding memories, suddenly felt like armor I didn’t deserve to wear.

But what she said next stopped my heart cold: “Because I need someone scary to protect me from my daddy. He said he’s coming back for me today.”

I’m Jake “Thunder” Thompson, sixty-eight years old, and that Wednesday afternoon in a small Texas town changed more lives than just mine.

But before I tell you what happened next, you need to understand something about old bikers like me – we’ve been called every name in the book, been crossed to the other side of streets, been refused service in restaurants. We’re used to fear. We’re not used to being someone’s only hope.

The note in her hand was shaking as she held it up to me. In careful, wobbly letters, it read: “To the scariest biker I can find. Please help me. My daddy hits my mommy and she’s in the hospital. He said he’s taking me to Mexico today. I have twenty dollars from my piggy bank. Please don’t let him take me. Emma, age 7.”

My hands have been steady through two tours in Vietnam, through forty years of construction work, through burying my son when he was just twenty-five. But holding that piece of notebook paper, standing in that Walmart parking lot with this terrified little girl looking up at me like I was either her salvation or her doom – my hands shook like autumn leaves.

“Where’s your mommy, sweetheart?” I asked, dropping to one knee so I wouldn’t tower over her. Up close, I could see the fear etched in every line of her small face. Her fingernails were bitten down to nothing. Her clothes were clean but worn, the kind of careful poor that breaks your heart.

“Baptist General Hospital,” she whispered. “Room 244. She can’t talk because of what daddy did to her throat. But she wrote me this note with her left hand.” She pulled out another crumpled paper. “It says to find help. To run if I see daddy’s truck.”

The second note was harder to read, clearly written by someone in tremendous pain: “If you’re reading this, please protect my daughter. Her father is dangerous. Navy blue pickup, license plate starts with KRX. He’s not supposed to have contact. Please.”

I looked around the parking lot instinctively, scanning for threats the way two tours in the jungle teaches you. “How did you get here, Emma?”

“Walked from the shelter,” she said. “It’s only six blocks. Miss Maria was sleeping and I sneaked out. I know I’m not supposed to, but daddy called the shelter phone. He knows where we are.”

Six blocks. A seven-year-old had walked six blocks alone through a rough part of town because she was more afraid of her father than anything the streets could offer. The weight of that hit me like a sledgehammer.

“Emma, we need to call the police,” I said gently.

Her whole body started shaking. “No! No police! Daddy’s friend is a policeman. He told daddy where the shelter was. Daddy said if I tell anyone else, he’ll hurt mommy worse.”

Christ. A dirty cop. A battered woman in the hospital. A seven-year-old girl literally looking for the scariest person she could find because sometimes scary is what stands between innocence and evil. And she’d picked me – a grizzled old Marine biker who probably did look like her idea of dangerous.

I made a decision that would have seemed insane to anyone watching. “Okay, Emma. No police. But I need to make some phone calls to my friends. Is that okay?”

She nodded solemnly. “Are they scary bikers too?”

“The scariest,” I assured her. “But they only scare bad people. Never little girls or their mommas.”

I pulled out my phone and hit the speed dial for our riding club president, Big Mike. “Brother, I need the cavalry. Walmart on Sixth Street. Code red involving a child. Bring everyone you can trust.”

Big Mike didn’t ask questions. That’s the thing about real brotherhood – when someone calls code red, you move. Within minutes, I knew fifteen to twenty of my brothers would be rolling toward us.

“Are you hungry, Emma?” I asked, noticing how thin she was.

She shook her head, then admitted, “A little. We only get breakfast at the shelter.”

My heart cracked a little more. I walked her to my bike, pulled out the emergency granola bars I always carried. “Eat this while we wait for my friends. Then we’re going to make sure you’re safe.”

She munched the granola bar in tiny bites, like she was trying to make it last. “Mister Thunder? Is that your real name?”

“It’s what my brothers call me,” I said. “My real name is Jake.”

“I like Thunder better,” she decided. “It sounds like someone who wins fights.”

If only she knew how many fights I’d lost in my life. But looking at her trusting face, I silently vowed I wouldn’t lose this one.

The rumble started low, building like an approaching storm. Emma pressed closer to me, and I put a protective hand on her shoulder. “Those are the good guys,” I promised.

They rolled in like an invading army – fifteen Harleys, two trikes, and a couple of support vehicles. Big Mike led the pack, all 6’4″ and 300 pounds of him, looking like a Viking who’d traded his longship for chrome and steel. Behind him came Doc (an actual ER physician), Preacher (who really had been a minister), Patches (our mechanic), and a dozen more of the finest men I’d ever known.

They parked in formation, creating a protective semicircle around Emma and me. When they dismounted, I saw Emma’s eyes go wide. These weren’t the clean-cut heroes from her storybooks. These were scarred, tattooed, leather-clad veterans who looked like they’d ridden through hell and decided to stay for the scenery.

Big Mike approached slowly, and then did something that still makes me tear up. This massive, intimidating man dropped to his knees in the parking lot, making himself smaller than Emma. “Hi, sweetheart. Thunder says you need our help. We’re really good at helping little girls and their mommas. Is that okay?”

Emma looked at me, then back at Big Mike. “Are you all Marines like Mr. Thunder?”

“Some of us,” Big Mike said gently. “Some Army, some Navy. Doc there was Air Force, but we don’t hold it against him.” That earned him a tiny smile. “But we’re all daddies and granddaddies who don’t like bullies.”

While Big Mike kept Emma calm, I pulled Doc and Preacher aside, explaining the situation. Doc’s face went dark when I mentioned the hospital.

“Baptist General? I’ve got privileges there. I can check on her mother, make sure she’s getting proper care.” He paused. “And I can make sure security knows about the threat.”

“I’ll reach out to my contacts at the women’s shelter,” Preacher added. “They need to know their location’s been compromised. We can arrange a safer place.”

That’s when we heard it – the squeal of tires as a navy blue pickup truck whipped into the parking lot, music blaring. Emma let out a terrified squeak and tried to hide behind my leg.

The truck screeched to a halt twenty feet away. The man who got out was everything I expected – mid-thirties, trying to look tough with his affliction t-shirt and barbed wire tattoos. The kind of man who confused fear with respect, violence with strength.

“EMMA!” he bellowed. “Get in the truck. NOW!”

Emma was crying, clinging to my leg so tight it hurt. I stepped forward, putting myself between them. “I don’t think so, friend.”

He sized me up – one old biker, probably looked like an easy obstacle. Then he noticed the semicircle of iron behind me. Fifteen more bikers, all standing with arms crossed, all staring at him with the kind of focused attention that predators recognize in other predators.

“This ain’t your business, old man,” he snarled. “That’s my daughter.”

“Funny thing about family,” I said conversationally. “Biology doesn’t always determine who protects a child.”

He reached for his waistband, and I saw the gun print under his shirt. But before he could draw, there was the distinct sound of multiple motorcycles starting behind me. The message was clear – make a move, and find out what happens.

“Emma’s made her choice,” I continued. “She doesn’t want to go with you. So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get back in your truck and leave. You’re going to forget about Emma and her mother. Because if you don’t, my brothers and I will make it our personal mission to ensure you never hurt anyone again.”

“You threatening me?” He was trying to sound tough, but I could see the fear creeping into his eyes. One-on-one, he might have taken his chances with an old biker. But seventeen? All veterans? All men who’d seen real violence and learned to control it rather than let it control them?

“No threat,” Big Mike rumbled from behind me. “Just a promise. See, we’re all retired. Got nothing but time. Time to follow you. Time to make sure every employer knows about your domestic violence charges. Time to ensure every woman you meet gets a heads up. Time to be your shadow until you either reform or relocate.”

“Preferably to another continent,” Patches added helpfully.

Emma’s father looked around wildly, realizing he was outnumbered, outgunned, and definitely outclassed. These weren’t street thugs he could intimidate. These were men who’d faced down the Viet Cong, Iraqi Republican Guard, Taliban fighters. A wife-beater with delusions of grandeur didn’t even register as a threat.

“You can’t… this is kidnapping!” he sputtered.

“Is it?” Preacher stepped forward. “Because I see a community protecting a child who asked for help. I see good Samaritans ensuring a minor’s safety. I see veterans doing what we’ve always done – standing between the innocent and those who would harm them.”

That’s when we heard the sirens. Multiple sirens, getting closer. Emma’s father went pale.

“Oh, did I mention?” Doc said casually. “While you were busy trying to intimidate us, I called some friends. Real cops, not dirty ones. Turns out there’s already a warrant for your arrest. Violation of a protection order, assault, battery. They’re very eager to meet you.”

The navy pickup peeled out of the parking lot so fast it left rubber. We watched him go, knowing the police would catch up soon enough. Men like that always think they’re smarter than they are.

Emma was still crying, but now she was surrounded by seventeen of the gentlest rough men you’d ever meet. Big Mike’s wife arrived with the support vehicle, immediately taking charge with the maternal efficiency of a woman who’d raised four daughters.

“Let’s get you somewhere safe, sweetpea,” she said, wrapping Emma in a blanket that appeared from nowhere. “Would you like to meet my granddaughter? She’s just about your age.”

As they were getting Emma settled in the vehicle, she broke away and ran back to me. Her small arms wrapped around my knees in the fiercest hug I’d ever received.

“Thank you, Mr. Thunder,” she whispered. “You’re not scary at all. You’re like a guardian angel with a motorcycle.”

I knelt down and hugged her properly, this brave little girl who’d walked six blocks through a dangerous neighborhood to find help in the last place most people would look.

“You’re the brave one, Emma,” I told her. “Remember that. And remember that there are always more good people than bad. Sometimes they just wear leather and ride loud motorcycles.”

She smiled – the first real smile I’d seen from her. “Will I see you again?”

“Count on it,” I promised. And I meant it.

The follow-up took weeks, but our brotherhood made sure it was thorough. Emma’s father was arrested two counties over, trying to flee to Mexico alone. The dirty cop who’d leaked the shelter location was investigated and fired. Emma’s mother recovered, though it took months of surgeries to repair the damage to her throat.

Doc used his connections to get her transferred to a better hospital, one with a specialized unit for domestic violence victims. Preacher’s church raised money for her medical bills. Big Mike’s construction company hired her once she recovered, giving her a job with flexible hours so she could be there for Emma.

And Emma? She became the unofficial mascot of our riding club. Every charity ride, every poker run, every gathering – there was Emma, wearing her own tiny leather vest (no patches yet – she had to earn those) and the biggest smile you ever saw.

One year later, at our annual Christmas toy run, Emma stood in front of two hundred bikers and told her story. She talked about being scared, about finding the courage to ask for help, about learning that heroes don’t always look like the movies.

“Mr. Thunder taught me something important,” she said, her voice clear and strong. “He said that being scary-looking doesn’t make you bad, and looking respectable doesn’t make you good. What matters is what you do when someone needs help.”

There wasn’t a dry eye in the clubhouse.

I’m telling this story now because Emma’s eighteen, heading to college on a scholarship our club helped fund. She wants to be a social worker, to help other kids like her. She still calls me Mr. Thunder, still hugs me like I’m something special instead of just an old Marine who did what anyone should do.

But here’s what stays with me: a seven-year-old girl was so desperate that she went looking for the scariest person she could find, because in her world, scary meant powerful enough to protect her. She looked at my patches, my scars, my grey beard and weathered face, and she saw safety.

How many other kids are out there, needing protection but afraid to ask? How many other women are hiding bruises because they think no one cares? How many other predators are counting on their victims being too scared to seek help from the “wrong” kind of people?

That’s why I tell this story every chance I get. Because sometimes heroes wear leather instead of capes. Sometimes salvation comes with a rumble instead of trumpets. And sometimes a little girl’s courage to ask for help can mobilize an army of angels who just happen to ride Harleys.

Emma’s note is framed in our clubhouse now, right next to our charter. It reminds us why we ride, why we gather, why we stand ready to be the scary-looking guardian angels someone might need.

Because being a biker isn’t about being an outlaw. It’s about living outside the lines society draws, the lines that say you shouldn’t get involved, shouldn’t make waves, shouldn’t stand up to bullies who count on good people doing nothing.

We’re the ones who cross those lines, who make waves, who stand up. And if that makes us scary to some people, so be it. We’ll wear that fear like armor, use it to protect those who need protecting.

After all, sometimes being scary is exactly what a seven-year-old girl needs you to be.

The little girl couldn’t have been more than seven, standing beside my Harley in the Walmart parking lot with tears streaming down her face, clutching a crumpled piece of notebook paper. She was alone, trembling in the Texas heat, her Frozen backpack hanging off one tiny shoulder. “Mister,” she whispered, looking up at me with the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen, “are you a real biker? Like the ones on TV who hurt people?” My leather vest, covered in Marine Corps patches and thirty years of riding memories, suddenly felt like armor I didn’t deserve to wear. But what she said next stopped my heart cold: “Because I need someone scary to protect me from my daddy. He said he’s coming back for me today.”

I’m Jake “Thunder” Thompson, sixty-eight years old, and that Wednesday afternoon in a small Texas town changed more lives than just mine. But before I tell you what happened next, you need to understand something about old bikers like me – we’ve been called every name in the book, been crossed to the other side of streets, been refused service in restaurants. We’re used to fear. We’re not used to being someone’s only hope.

The note in her hand was shaking as she held it up to me. In careful, wobbly letters, it read: “To the scariest biker I can find. Please help me. My daddy hits my mommy and she’s in the hospital. He said he’s taking me to Mexico today. I have twenty dollars from my piggy bank. Please don’t let him take me. Emma, age 7.”

---

My hands have been steady through two tours in Vietnam, through forty years of construction work, through burying my son when he was just twenty-five. But holding that piece of notebook paper, standing in that Walmart parking lot with this terrified little girl looking up at me like I was either her salvation or her doom – my hands shook like autumn leaves.

“Where’s your mommy, sweetheart?” I asked, dropping to one knee so I wouldn’t tower over her. Up close, I could see the fear etched in every line of her small face. Her fingernails were bitten down to nothing. Her clothes were clean but worn, the kind of careful poor that breaks your heart.

“Baptist General Hospital,” she whispered. “Room 244. She can’t talk because of what daddy did to her throat. But she wrote me this note with her left hand.” She pulled out another crumpled paper. “It says to find help. To run if I see daddy’s truck.”

The second note was harder to read, clearly written by someone in tremendous pain: “If you’re reading this, please protect my daughter. Her father is dangerous. Navy blue pickup, license plate starts with KRX. He’s not supposed to have contact. Please.”

I looked around the parking lot instinctively, scanning for threats the way two tours in the jungle teaches you. “How did you get here, Emma?”

“Walked from the shelter,” she said. “It’s only six blocks. Miss Maria was sleeping and I sneaked out. I know I’m not supposed to, but daddy called the shelter phone. He knows where we are.”

Six blocks. A seven-year-old had walked six blocks alone through a rough part of town because she was more afraid of her father than anything the streets could offer. The weight of that hit me like a sledgehammer.

“Emma, we need to call the police,” I said gently.

Her whole body started shaking. “No! No police! Daddy’s friend is a policeman. He told daddy where the shelter was. Daddy said if I tell anyone else, he’ll hurt mommy worse.”

Christ. A dirty cop. A battered woman in the hospital. A seven-year-old girl literally looking for the scariest person she could find because sometimes scary is what stands between innocence and evil. And she’d picked me – a grizzled old Marine biker who probably did look like her idea of dangerous.

I made a decision that would have seemed insane to anyone watching. “Okay, Emma. No police. But I need to make some phone calls to my friends. Is that okay?”

She nodded solemnly. “Are they scary bikers too?”

“The scariest,” I assured her. “But they only scare bad people. Never little girls or their mommas.”

I pulled out my phone and hit the speed dial for our riding club president, Big Mike. “Brother, I need the cavalry. Walmart on Sixth Street. Code red involving a child. Bring everyone you can trust.”

Big Mike didn’t ask questions. That’s the thing about real brotherhood – when someone calls code red, you move. Within minutes, I knew fifteen to twenty of my brothers would be rolling toward us.

“Are you hungry, Emma?” I asked, noticing how thin she was.

She shook her head, then admitted, “A little. We only get breakfast at the shelter.”

My heart cracked a little more. I walked her to my bike, pulled out the emergency granola bars I always carried. “Eat this while we wait for my friends. Then we’re going to make sure you’re safe.”

She munched the granola bar in tiny bites, like she was trying to make it last. “Mister Thunder? Is that your real name?”

“It’s what my brothers call me,” I said. “My real name is Jake.”

“I like Thunder better,” she decided. “It sounds like someone who wins fights.”

If only she knew how many fights I’d lost in my life. But looking at her trusting face, I silently vowed I wouldn’t lose this one.

The rumble started low, building like an approaching storm. Emma pressed closer to me, and I put a protective hand on her shoulder. “Those are the good guys,” I promised.

They rolled in like an invading army – fifteen Harleys, two trikes, and a couple of support vehicles. Big Mike led the pack, all 6’4″ and 300 pounds of him, looking like a Viking who’d traded his longship for chrome and steel. Behind him came Doc (an actual ER physician), Preacher (who really had been a minister), Patches (our mechanic), and a dozen more of the finest men I’d ever known.

They parked in formation, creating a protective semicircle around Emma and me. When they dismounted, I saw Emma’s eyes go wide. These weren’t the clean-cut heroes from her storybooks. These were scarred, tattooed, leather-clad veterans who looked like they’d ridden through hell and decided to stay for the scenery.

Big Mike approached slowly, and then did something that still makes me tear up. This massive, intimidating man dropped to his knees in the parking lot, making himself smaller than Emma. “Hi, sweetheart. Thunder says you need our help. We’re really good at helping little girls and their mommas. Is that okay?”

Emma looked at me, then back at Big Mike. “Are you all Marines like Mr. Thunder?”

“Some of us,” Big Mike said gently. “Some Army, some Navy. Doc there was Air Force, but we don’t hold it against him.” That earned him a tiny smile. “But we’re all daddies and granddaddies who don’t like bullies.”

While Big Mike kept Emma calm, I pulled Doc and Preacher aside, explaining the situation. Doc’s face went dark when I mentioned the hospital.

“Baptist General? I’ve got privileges there. I can check on her mother, make sure she’s getting proper care.” He paused. “And I can make sure security knows about the threat.”

“I’ll reach out to my contacts at the women’s shelter,” Preacher added. “They need to know their location’s been compromised. We can arrange a safer place.”

That’s when we heard it – the squeal of tires as a navy blue pickup truck whipped into the parking lot, music blaring. Emma let out a terrified squeak and tried to hide behind my leg.

The truck screeched to a halt twenty feet away. The man who got out was everything I expected – mid-thirties, trying to look tough with his affliction t-shirt and barbed wire tattoos. The kind of man who confused fear with respect, violence with strength.

“EMMA!” he bellowed. “Get in the truck. NOW!”

Emma was crying, clinging to my leg so tight it hurt. I stepped forward, putting myself between them. “I don’t think so, friend.”

He sized me up – one old biker, probably looked like an easy obstacle. Then he noticed the semicircle of iron behind me. Fifteen more bikers, all standing with arms crossed, all staring at him with the kind of focused attention that predators recognize in other predators.

“This ain’t your business, old man,” he snarled. “That’s my daughter.”

“Funny thing about family,” I said conversationally. “Biology doesn’t always determine who protects a child.”

He reached for his waistband, and I saw the gun print under his shirt. But before he could draw, there was the distinct sound of multiple motorcycles starting behind me. The message was clear – make a move, and find out what happens.

“Emma’s made her choice,” I continued. “She doesn’t want to go with you. So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get back in your truck and leave. You’re going to forget about Emma and her mother. Because if you don’t, my brothers and I will make it our personal mission to ensure you never hurt anyone again.”

“You threatening me?” He was trying to sound tough, but I could see the fear creeping into his eyes. One-on-one, he might have taken his chances with an old biker. But seventeen? All veterans? All men who’d seen real violence and learned to control it rather than let it control them?

“No threat,” Big Mike rumbled from behind me. “Just a promise. See, we’re all retired. Got nothing but time. Time to follow you. Time to make sure every employer knows about your domestic violence charges. Time to ensure every woman you meet gets a heads up. Time to be your shadow until you either reform or relocate.”

“Preferably to another continent,” Patches added helpfully.

Emma’s father looked around wildly, realizing he was outnumbered, outgunned, and definitely outclassed. These weren’t street thugs he could intimidate. These were men who’d faced down the Viet Cong, Iraqi Republican Guard, Taliban fighters. A wife-beater with delusions of grandeur didn’t even register as a threat.

“You can’t… this is kidnapping!” he sputtered.

“Is it?” Preacher stepped forward. “Because I see a community protecting a child who asked for help. I see good Samaritans ensuring a minor’s safety. I see veterans doing what we’ve always done – standing between the innocent and those who would harm them.”

That’s when we heard the sirens. Multiple sirens, getting closer. Emma’s father went pale.

“Oh, did I mention?” Doc said casually. “While you were busy trying to intimidate us, I called some friends. Real cops, not dirty ones. Turns out there’s already a warrant for your arrest. Violation of a protection order, assault, battery. They’re very eager to meet you.”

The navy pickup peeled out of the parking lot so fast it left rubber. We watched him go, knowing the police would catch up soon enough. Men like that always think they’re smarter than they are.

Emma was still crying, but now she was surrounded by seventeen of the gentlest rough men you’d ever meet. Big Mike’s wife arrived with the support vehicle, immediately taking charge with the maternal efficiency of a woman who’d raised four daughters.

“Let’s get you somewhere safe, sweetpea,” she said, wrapping Emma in a blanket that appeared from nowhere. “Would you like to meet my granddaughter? She’s just about your age.”

As they were getting Emma settled in the vehicle, she broke away and ran back to me. Her small arms wrapped around my knees in the fiercest hug I’d ever received.

“Thank you, Mr. Thunder,” she whispered. “You’re not scary at all. You’re like a guardian angel with a motorcycle.”

I knelt down and hugged her properly, this brave little girl who’d walked six blocks through a dangerous neighborhood to find help in the last place most people would look.

“You’re the brave one, Emma,” I told her. “Remember that. And remember that there are always more good people than bad. Sometimes they just wear leather and ride loud motorcycles.”

She smiled – the first real smile I’d seen from her. “Will I see you again?”

“Count on it,” I promised. And I meant it.

The follow-up took weeks, but our brotherhood made sure it was thorough. Emma’s father was arrested two counties over, trying to flee to Mexico alone. The dirty cop who’d leaked the shelter location was investigated and fired. Emma’s mother recovered, though it took months of surgeries to repair the damage to her throat.

Doc used his connections to get her transferred to a better hospital, one with a specialized unit for domestic violence victims. Preacher’s church raised money for her medical bills. Big Mike’s construction company hired her once she recovered, giving her a job with flexible hours so she could be there for Emma.

And Emma? She became the unofficial mascot of our riding club. Every charity ride, every poker run, every gathering – there was Emma, wearing her own tiny leather vest (no patches yet – she had to earn those) and the biggest smile you ever saw.

One year later, at our annual Christmas toy run, Emma stood in front of two hundred bikers and told her story. She talked about being scared, about finding the courage to ask for help, about learning that heroes don’t always look like the movies.

“Mr. Thunder taught me something important,” she said, her voice clear and strong. “He said that being scary-looking doesn’t make you bad, and looking respectable doesn’t make you good. What matters is what you do when someone needs help.”

There wasn’t a dry eye in the clubhouse.

I’m telling this story now because Emma’s eighteen, heading to college on a scholarship our club helped fund. She wants to be a social worker, to help other kids like her. She still calls me Mr. Thunder, still hugs me like I’m something special instead of just an old Marine who did what anyone should do.

But here’s what stays with me: a seven-year-old girl was so desperate that she went looking for the scariest person she could find, because in her world, scary meant powerful enough to protect her. She looked at my patches, my scars, my grey beard and weathered face, and she saw safety.

How many other kids are out there, needing protection but afraid to ask? How many other women are hiding bruises because they think no one cares? How many other predators are counting on their victims being too scared to seek help from the “wrong” kind of people?

That’s why I tell this story every chance I get. Because sometimes heroes wear leather instead of capes. Sometimes salvation comes with a rumble instead of trumpets. And sometimes a little girl’s courage to ask for help can mobilize an army of angels who just happen to ride Harleys.

Emma’s note is framed in our clubhouse now, right next to our charter. It reminds us why we ride, why we gather, why we stand ready to be the scary-looking guardian angels someone might need.

Because being a biker isn’t about being an outlaw. It’s about living outside the lines society draws, the lines that say you shouldn’t get involved, shouldn’t make waves, shouldn’t stand up to bullies who count on good people doing nothing.

We’re the ones who cross those lines, who make waves, who stand up. And if that makes us scary to some people, so be it. We’ll wear that fear like armor, use it to protect those who need protecting.

After all, sometimes being scary is exactly what a seven-year-old girl needs you to be.