“There are families sleeping in hospital waiting rooms every night,” she told me.
“I know.”
“Some don't even have a working car.”
I nodded.
She looked toward Tucker, who was drawing beside the kitchen table.
“If all this helps him, I'm grateful. But if it can help another family too, that would mean something.”
I smiled.
“Then we'll make room for that.”
The event was scheduled for a Saturday in early summer.
We chose a large community fairground outside Tulsa.
The ride would begin there, follow an approved route through nearby countryside, and return for a meal, small auction, and fundraising activities.
No one expected Tucker to ride on a motorcycle.
He was far too young, and his health required careful attention.
Instead, Ron proposed building a display where he could sit on a stationary child's pretend motorcycle and have his picture taken if he felt well enough.
Tucker loved the idea.
He asked whether it could have a horn.
Ron said yes.
He asked whether it could have headlights.
Ron said he'd see what he could do.
Then Tucker asked whether it could shoot rockets.
Ron looked at Angie.
Angie shook her head.
Ron sighed.
“Guess we'll stick with headlights.”
Tucker looked disappointed.
“Okay. But really bright ones.”
Ron nodded solemnly.
“Really bright.”
He spent the next two weeks building the thing.
It started as a wooden frame with cardboard panels.
Then he added handlebars, a padded seat, and small decorative wheels.
He painted it black and silver.
Another club member added a pretend license plate.
A third installed a little battery-operated horn that made a ridiculous squeaking sound.
Ron hated the horn.
Tucker loved it.
The first time he saw the pretend motorcycle, he stood perfectly still.
Then he turned toward Ron.
“Is that mine?”
Ron nodded.
“Sure is.”
Tucker approached slowly.
He touched the handlebars.
Then the seat.
Then the painted tank.
Finally, he looked up.
“It's beautiful.”
Ron turned away so quickly that I knew he was crying.
The boy pressed the horn.
Squeak.
He laughed.
Then he pressed it again.
And again.
By the tenth time, Ron was threatening to disconnect the battery.
Tucker informed him that real mechanics were not allowed to complain about their own work.
I nearly fell out of my chair laughing.
But the most important thing Ron made wasn't the motorcycle.
It was a tiny leather vest.
He ordered a child-sized version from a local leatherworker, then spent several evenings sewing patches onto it.
The back carried a small Iron Ghosts emblem.
Above it was a patch reading: