No Child Goes Alone: Tomás Lucero’s Last Journey

The morning of Tomás Lucero’s funeral dawned cold and gray, as if the sky refused to shine for a child who had known darkness too soon. 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, who felt a bitter and angry impotence.

Tomás was ten years old and had spent the last three fighting leukemia that finally defeated him. His grandmother, the only one who visited him in the hospital, had suffered a heart attack the day before the burial and was now lying unconscious in the ICU. The Social Services assured that they had fulfilled their duty, the host family ignored and the parish refused to officiate the ceremony because he was the son of a murderer. Thus, Tomás was about to be buried alone, with only one number per tombstone in a municipal niche.

Emilio, in desperation, called Manolo, an old friend and member of the Nomad Riders. “Manolo, I need help,” he said with a broken voice. “I have a child here that no one wants to bury. His father is in jail for murder. No one will come.”

Manolo did not hesitate. He recalled how Emilio had treated his wife with dignity when cancer took her. I owed him that favor and much more. “Give me two hours,” he promised before hanging up.

Manolo honked at the club’s premises. Within minutes, the main hall was filled with bikers. “Brothers, there is a child who is going to be buried just because his father is in prison. He died of cancer. No one claims it. No one will mourn him. I’m going to his funeral. I don’t force anyone, but if you think no child deserves to go alone, come with me.”

The silence was absolute. The Old Bear broke the ice: “My grandson is ten.” Martillo added: “Mine too.” Ron muttered, “My boy would have ten, if the drunk driver hadn’t been…” No more needed to be said.

Miguelón, the president, stood up: “Call the other clubs. This is not about territories or patches. It’s about a child.”

The calls multiplied. Rebel Eagles, Steel Knights, Asphalt Demons, clubs that had not spoken to each other for years, all answered the same: “We will be there.”

When Manolo arrived at the funeral home, Emilio was waiting for him outside, overwhelmed. “I didn’t mean this…”, he murmured when he heard the roar of the motorcycles. First came the Nomads, 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 filled with bikers. Tough men, many with tears in their eyes, passed before the coffin. Someone left a stuffed animal, another a toy motorcycle. Soon there were offerings: toys, flowers, a leather jacket with “Honorary Rider” embroidered on it. Lápida, a veteran of the Eagles, 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 upstairs.”

One by one, the bikers spoke, not of Tomás, but of lost sons, of stolen innocence, that no child deserves to die only for the sins of his father.

Then Emilio received a call. He came back pale. “The prison,” he said. “Marcos Lucero… he knows. About Tomás. About the funeral. The guards monitor him for suicide risk. Ask if… if anyone came for his son.”

Miguelón got up: “Put it on speakerphone.” Emilio hesitated, but he did. A broken voice filled the chapel: “Hello? Is there anyone? Please, is there anyone with my child?”

Miguelón replied firmly: “This is Miguel Watson, president of the Nomadic Riders. Here there are three hundred and twelve motorcycles from seventeen different clubs. We all came for Tomás.”

Silence. Then heart-wrenching sobs from a man who had lost everything. “He loved… motorcycles,” Marcos stammered. “Before I ruined everything. He had a toy Harley. He slept with it. He said he wanted to be a biker when he grew up.”

“It will be,” Miguelón promised. “With us. Every Memorial, every charity route, every time we start, Tomás will go with us. I swear on behalf of all the clubs here.”

“I couldn’t even say goodbye,” Marcos whispered. “Not even hug him. Not tell him I loved him.”

“Tell him now,” Manolo interjected. “We’ll make sure he hears it.”

The next few minutes were the farewell of a father. Marcos spoke of Tomás’ first steps, of his love for dinosaurs, of his courage in the hospital. He apologized a thousand times for not being there, for his mistakes, for not being able to protect him.

At the end of the call, everyone knew that something had changed. Tomás would not be buried alone. The biker cortege accompanied the coffin to the cemetery. Hundreds of engines roared, accompanying the boy on his last journey. When he was buried, Miguelón placed the “Honorary Rider” jacket on the grave.

That night, prison guards reported that Marcos Lucero did not attempt suicide. Instead, he asked for paper and pencil. He wrote a letter to his son, thanking the bikers for giving him the send-off he couldn’t give.

Today, every time the Nomad Riders start their motorcycles, the wind seems to carry the laughter of a child who, at last, can fly free. No child goes underground alone. And Tomás Lucero, honorary biker, will always ride with them.