The morning of Tomás Lucero’s funeral was cold and gray, as if the sky had refused to brighten for a child who had experienced darkness so early. In the chapel of the Paz Eterna funeral home, Emilio Pardo, the director, waited alone next to the small white coffin. Two hours had passed and no one had come to say goodbye to Tomás. No one, except Emilio, had felt the bitter and angry helplessness.
Tomás was ten years old and had spent the last three battles with leukemia that he had finally lost. His grandmother, the only person to visit him in the hospital, had suffered a heart attack the day before the funeral and now lay unconscious in the ICU. Social Services assured him that they had fulfilled their duty, the host family ignored him and the parish refused to officiate the ceremony because he was the son of a murderer. So, Tomás was about to be buried alone, with only one number on each tombstone in a municipal lot.
In desperation, Emilio called Manolo, an old friend and member of the Nomad Riders. “Manolo, I need help,” he said in a broken voice. “I have a son here that no one wants to bury. His father is in prison for murder. No one is coming.”
Manolo didn’t hesitate. He remembered how Emilio had treated his wife with dignity when she was stricken with cancer. I owed him that favor and many others. “Give me two hours,” he said before hanging up.
Manolo groaned inside the club. A few minutes later the large hall was filled with motorcycles. “Brothers, there’s a boy who’s going to be buried just because his father’s in prison. He died of cancer. No one claims him. No one will mourn him. I’m going to his funeral. “I’m not forcing anyone, but if you don’t think there’s a son who deserves to go alone, come with me.”
The silence was complete. The old bear broke the ice: “My grandson is ten years old.” Martillo added: “Mine too.” Ron whispered, “My son would have been ten, if the driver hadn’t been drunk…” No more was needed.
Miguelón, the president, stood up: “Call the other clubs. This is not about territories or patches. This is about a child.”
The calls multiplied. The Rebel Eagles, the Steel Knights, the Asphalt Demons, clubs that hadn’t spoken to each other in years, all answered the same: “We’ll get there.”
When Manolo arrived at the funeral home, Emilio was waiting for him outside, distraught. “I didn’t mean this…” he whispered when he heard the roar of motorcycles. First the Nomads arrived, then the Eagles, the Knights, the Demons. The parking lot and the nearby streets were filled with motorcycles: three hundred and twelve, according to Miguelón.
The chapel was packed with bikers. The tough guys, many with tears in their eyes, passed in front of the casket. One left a stuffed animal, another a toy motorcycle. Soon there were offerings: toys, flowers, a leather jacket embroidered with “Honorary Rider.” Lápida, an Eagles veteran, left a photo of his son Javier, who died of leukemia at the same age: “Now you are not alone, Tomás. Javier will show you the way to the top.”
One by one, the bikers spoke, not about Tomás, but about lost children, about stolen innocence, that no child deserves to die for the sins of his father.
Emilio later received a call. He came back pale. “The prison,” he said. “Marcos Lucero… he knows. About Tomás. About the funeral. The guards are monitoring him for suicide risk. Ask if… If anyone is coming for his son.”
Miguelón stood up: “Put this on loudspeaker.” Emilio hesitated, but he did so. A broken voice filled the chapel: “Hello? Is anyone there? “Please, is my son with you?”
Miguelón answered sternly: “This is Miguel Watson, president of the Nomad Riders. Here are three hundred and twelve motorcycles from seventeen different clubs. We all came for Tomás.”
Silence. Then, the heartbreaking sobs of a man who had lost everything. “He loved them… motorcycles,” Marcos said with a laugh. “Before I broke everything. I had a toy Harley. He slept on it. He said he wanted to be a biker when he grew up.”
“It will happen,” Miguelón said. “To us. Every Memorial, every route of
“It will happen,” Miguelón said. “With us. Every Memorial, every charity route, every time we start, Tomás will be with us. And, I swear to you, it will be worth it :).
“I can’t even say goodbye,” Marcos whispered. “Not even hug him. Tell him I love him.”
“Tell him now,” Manolo intervened. “We’ll make sure he hears this.”
The next few minutes were a father’s farewell. Marcos told the story of Tomás’ first steps, his love for dinosaurs, his bravery in the hospital. He apologized a thousand times for not being there, for his mistakes, for not being able to protect him.
By the end of the conversation, everyone knew something had changed. Tomas was not alone. A biker cortege accompanied the coffin to the cemetery. Hundreds of engines roared, accompanying the boy on his final journey. When he was buried, Miguelón placed the jacket of the “Honorary Rider” on the grave.
That night, the prison guards reported that Marcos Lucero had not attempted suicide. Instead, he asked for paper and a pencil. He wrote a letter to his son, thanking the bikers for giving him the farewell he could not give.
Now, every time the Nomad Riders start their bikes, the wind seems to carry the laughter of a child who, Finally, they can fly freely. No child is alone underground. And Tomás Lucero, honorary biker, will always be with them.