At First, It Was Just Another Funeral—Then the Ground Started to Shake (2 of 2)

The next morning, the cemetery parking lot rumbled like a thunderstorm. Dozens of bikes. Dozens of strangers, wearing black leather and sorrow like armor. They formed a silent corridor to the chapel.

When the four boys arrived with their parents, confusion turned to fear. One even stepped back toward his SUV. Sam stepped forward: “These boys are welcome to pay respects. We’re here to make sure everyone remembers why.”

Inside the chapel, the silence was reverent. No drama. Just dignity. Afterwards, parents of the bullies approached me—angry, embarrassed. One said his son was “deeply upset.” I told him, “Good. He should be.”

A week later, the bikers showed up again—this time at Lakewood High. They spoke to the student body about bullying and suicide. They shared names. Faces. Stories. Pain. By the end, students cried. Confessed. Promised to do better.

The four boys never returned. Transferred quietly. The principal resigned. A new one came in—someone who understood.

I left the school too. Couldn’t mop those halls anymore. Sold the house. Set up a scholarship in Mikey’s name for young artists.

Now I ride with the Steel Angels. Not because I was born for it, but because I owe it to Mikey. We show up at funerals. At schools. At rallies. We are the thunder that rolls in after the storm. A promise that someone is listening. That someone cares.

We don’t save every kid. But sometimes, one hears us in time to wait one more day. Sometimes, that’s all it takes.

For Mikey. For the others. We ride.