Sunday is a day of rest. Normally. But not this Sunday. This Sunday I was awake at 6:30 am and on my Suzuki Marauder all decked out in leather by 7:15 am. Why, you ask, would I do such a thing? Am I a crazy person? To answer the second question first: yes. To answer the first question second will take some explaining.
Today was the Totally Kids Run for the Heart. Five hundred or so bikes met up at a place called The Chopper Shop in Loma Linda at around 9:30 to bring gifts and money to a very worthy and needy place. Before I talk about that though, let's talk about the ride.
Like I said, over 500 bikes made the trip. Choppers, sport bikes, and cruisers of every make and model: Hondas, Vulcan's, Kawasaki 's, a ton of Harleys (because everyone owns a Harley), and even another blue Marauder. And bikers ranging from hardcore MC patches (think Vagos, and other scary people), to Bikers For Christ type groups, to guys like me and my dad and his girlfriend, who are riding unaffiliated. When a group this large gets together to ride there are some logistical problems. The main concern is how to keep the group together, seeing as streets have a tendency to have streetlights and these have the tendency to stop traffic, thus breaking up your group. So, when it's a group that's never ridden together before the people organizing the ride take certain responsibilities. They have jobs like Road Captain, who rides in the front, Tail Gunner, who rides in the back, and Road Guard, who are guys that keep the group together. In this case that means stopping traffic. Let me explain. Some group rides are supported by the local law enforcement. You tell them, they approve it and come out and help, maybe give you an escort for some of the way. Other rides are not helped by the boys in blue. And you know what they say: "The Biker Gods help those who help themselves." In this case that means that the main job of the Road Guards was to pull into the intersections we would be rolling through en masse and park their bikes in the crosswalks and stop cross traffic. Seriously. You choose some of the more, let's say "frightening" looking bikers in your club and appoint them Road Guards. Thus appointed they roll out along the route, blocking intersections and on ramps, once we get to the freeway, with their bikes and bodies. And before you ask, no this is not legal. I'm quite sure each of these guys got a $250 fine. And I'm also sure they knew it would happen and did it anyway. Also, riding through a red light in a group that enormous is really fucking cool.
En masse we merge onto the freeway. This is where it becomes interesting. As a group we ride two to a lane, trying to keep the group in one lane only. Not the lane closest to the on ramps and not the closest to the wall, that way cages have a way to get on and off the freeway and a way to get around us. This works most of the time. Except for when the dumbass in the Taurus almost misses his exit and cuts into a line of bikers, forcing many of us into different lanes to avoid accidents. But other than that it works great.
For the record, there is no sound like 500 motorcycles, most of them modified to illegal volume levels, like the one yours truly rides might be, revving their engines or blasting down the freeway. It's music. It's Steppenwolf's "heavy metal thunder." And to look out over my handlebars at a line that long of bikes…it's amazing.
We blasted down the freeway for about 15 or 20 miles until we reached our exit. From there it was only a minute until we reached the Children's Hospital. And this is where it got hard.
The Mt. View Totally Kids Specialty Health Care Center is not a normal hospital. They don't treat broken bones and stubbed toes. There are not burn victims or sick in the traditional sense children here. This is serious, scary serious. These children are all very not ok in one-way or another. Most all of them have some type of brain injury, either from birth defect or accident. The two terms that are used to describe most of these children are Persistent Vegetative State and Severe Traumatic Brain Injury, most as a result of accident or child abuse. This is the place I am about to enter.
The coolest part about this ride compared to other rides is the way the donations are made. Most charity rides work like this: registration is $75. A percentage of that money goes to the charity. The rest goes to the people putting on the ride to pay for all the extras like the Port-a-Potties, the food, the t-shirts and patches and pins. Not so with this ride. On this ride we meet somewhere and ride to the hospital. For there you take your donation, if you brought one, and you hand it to the nurse at the hospital, or one of the children, or you place it in the lobby. There is no middleman. 100% of the donations make it. And you can donate anything you want. In the lobby they had a bucket out for money that people wanted to give, in which I know I say at least one check for $100. They also had all the donations out. I saw bikers giving stuffed animals and blankets and body pillows. I also saw in the pile of stuff two TVs and a few DVD players, which the hospital needs badly as well. The staff is just happy to see us. They know bikers, they appreciate what we're doing.
And then comes the really difficult part. It's the most rewarding part but the hardest to do. They let you visit the children. The rooms are open, the kids that can be out in their wheelchairs with a nurse are out looking at the bikes. The ones that have to stay in their rooms are in their beds. Let me be very clear, when I say looking at the bikes I don't know what they were seeing. I hope they saw the bikes and understood. But I could not tell. Think about the movie Awakenings. Most are stuck in one position or another, not able to move their own bodies. I'm pretty sure every child I saw had a ventilator attached to their throats to help them breath and none of the was mobile. Most have bibs on to catch the drool they can't control. Most aren't looking at you; they don't look like they are looking at anything. Most don't respond to your voice or touch. I met one child today that responded verbally to an asked question. And I think I saw every child there.
Outside we met with a little girl and her parents. She is maybe 4 feet tall, it's hard to gauge with her being in a wheel chair, and maybe 75 lbs. Dad and mom are smiling and talking to everyone they can. When we approach dad asks us how old we think their daughter is. We guess 10 or 12. Their eyes gleam. "She is 25," they say proudly. "The doctor didn't give her a year," says mom. Then she adds, kind of smugly, "He's dead now, but she's a fighter."
I went into a room with three beautiful little girls in it. One was two months old. Another was a little red head, seven or eight years old, in one of the bouncy walker things. And a third was a little black girl in a wheel chair. The two month old had just been given a pink mobile by a woman biker. She attached it to the side of the crib and twisted the key until it turned on. As soon as the noise began the other two began twisting their heads to find the sound, eyes wide. When it stopped they looked confused and sad. So we would wind it up again.
I went into a room where a boy's grandmother was cradling him in her arms. He is almost two. He does not have brain damage. However he lacks a certain gene that allows him to control his muscles. Tests show that his brain is active and awake but he cannot move at all. He cannot scratch that itch on the tip of his nose. He can lie there in her arms. She is going to throw a big birthday party for him when he turns two. She lives in Orange County and comes to visit him as often as possible so that mom can get some time off. Also in that room was a little boy captivated by the TV showing him Toy Story 2. "He likes the colors and the sounds and the lights," says the nurse.
In another room is a twelve year old boy. He was born like the rest of us. Then, when he was two, his mom stepped out of the room for just a moment to answer the door. He drown in the bucket of water she was using to mop the floor. They managed to revive him but his brain had been without oxygen for too long.
In many of these rooms, looking at the seemingly sightless eyes, watching tough, tattooed biker men and women talk to the children and seeing no response at all, it got very hard. I found myself consciously telling myself that these are real, live children. They are alive. They eat, they breathe, and hopefully, they think. I would watch the heart rate and respiration monitors each child is hooked up to, hoping to see a fluctuation when someone touches their foot or tells them hello. I couldn't tell. I couldn't talk to some of them. I wasn't repulsed, I was hurt. These are children. There are no adults in this hospital. They go to "school" at the hospital. But not like my kids. Without meaning to I would load images of what a healthy child of whatever age I was looking at looks like and hold them next to each other. I would think, "He's eight, he should be learning multiplication and reading Charlotte 's Web. But he never will. I hope someone reads it to him." You want to go back there everyday after work and do whatever you can for the kids. And reality stands up in front of you and breaks your heart because you know you can't.
And that's where the nurses come in. And the parents. But some of the parents don't come anymore. I can't blame them. I don't know what I would do in that situation. I can't imagine how hard it would be to go everyday and sit with my son in a little hospital room, talking to him, rubbing his arms and feet and legs to fight off atrophy. How long could you do that? I know what my heart says. It says I'd do it forever. But is that true? Forever? With little to no hope he's ever going to even look at me and say, "Hi Dad." I hope I never have to find out.
The nurses are amazing people. They are friendly and happy and polite. They work long hours and I'm sure they don't make nearly enough money for what they do. It's a job that takes a very special kind of person. I am not that kind of person. I don't know many people that are. And that is not a bad thing, just an honest thing. Who could deal with children like that and remain happy or go home at the end of the day and not scream and cry and beat at the walls? Only very special people and my heart goes out to them as much as it goes out to the parents and the children themselves.
I wanted to talk about this place because it's a life changing experience. I don't mean that I'm going to go out tomorrow and sign up to work there. But I am going to look at life differently, or I'm going to try. Its one thing to know that children like that are out there, it's quite another to stand beside them and listen to them breathe while the tube in their nose keeps the mucus clear so they don't suffocate.
I
went from one extreme to the
other today. Being in a group that huge on a bike was an amazing
experience.
Walking into that hospital and seeing those children was quite a
different kind
of amazing experience. Seeing all the people I saw today doing what
they can to
make life a little better for these children made me a little less
cynical. I
hope I learn from it. I hope I live better because of it. And I can't
wait for
the ride again next year. I'm honestly going to try to make it down
there
before then but who knows. I just know that as long as that ride
happens,
that's one day every year that I have booked in advance.
Written by, Doug Robertson
11/14/06