For most of my life, I avoided kids. I never wanted any, and I made that clear. But one cold morning in Oklahoma, everything changed when I found a dying baby left on my motorcycle seat.
It was just after 6 a.m., and my Harley was parked outside a truck stop when I spotted him — a tiny infant wrapped in a dirty blanket, with a note pinned to it that read, “Please save him.” The baby wasn’t crying, his lips turning blue, and his breathing barely there.
I’m 52 and have ridden with the Brotherhood Motorcycle Club for decades. My ex-wife left me because I refused to have children. “You’d rather love a machine than a child,” she said — and she was right.
But holding that fragile baby in my oil-stained hands, something inside me broke open. I ran inside, shouting for help and begging the little one to hold on. When the ambulance arrived, the paramedics asked if I was his father. I wasn’t. Someone had abandoned him on my bike.
At the hospital, I learned the baby was stable but only just — hypothermia, dehydration, and malnutrition nearly claimed his life. Despite not knowing him, I couldn’t walk away. I waited, worried, until I was finally allowed to see him in the NICU, hooked up to wires but alive.
That moment changed me. I decided to keep him.
After months of paperwork and sleepless nights, I officially adopted him. The Brotherhood was shocked — a biker raising a baby? But JJ, as I named him, quickly became the heart of my world. Now three years old, he’s full of life and laughter, and I’m a father who never thought he’d be one.
My ex-wife recently called, amazed I’d taken this path. I told her, “I guess I was waiting for the right one — the one who needed me as much as I needed him.”
I never found his mother, and maybe I never will. But what I do know is this: that cold morning, God left a dying baby on my motorcycle seat — and saved both our lives.
