The massive biker carried the unconscious four-year-old boy through five miles of blazing forest because the child’s wheelchair couldn’t handle the evacuation route.
From the emergency checkpoint, I watched in stunned silence as this leather-clad giant emerged from the smoke. His arms were raw and bloody from thorns, his $20,000 Harley abandoned somewhere in the flames, yet he held my neighbor’s disabled son like the boy was made of glass.
The child’s mother had been screaming that her son was trapped at their cabin when the fire leapt across the highway. Emergency crews had insisted the roads were impassable—but the biker merely nodded, revved his engine, and vanished into the inferno.
Now he was walking out, little Tommy secured against his chest with the biker’s own leather vest, the child’s oxygen tank strapped to his back, his motorcycle club patches singed and melting.