The military said the soldier’s body would come “when the weather is good,” so 47 motorcyclists rode 1,200 miles in a blizzard to bring him home.
Danny Chen, a Marine Corporal, died in Afghanistan. He asked to be buried close to his father, who died in a motorcycle accident when Danny was twelve years old, in the little town of Millfield, Montana.
The military transport was stuck on the ground for an undetermined amount of time because to bad winter weather. Sarah, Danny’s mother, got a cold email saying that her son’s body would arrive “within 2–4 weeks, weather permitting.”
But when she commented about how sad she was on a Facebook page for Gold Star Mothers and said she only wanted her baby home for Christmas, something amazing happened.
The Rolling Thunder motorcycle club did something amazing in less than six hours: they got into the military base, put Danny’s flag-draped casket in a special motorcycle hearse, and brought him home through some of the worst storms in twenty years.
When Big Jake, the 67-year-old president of Rolling Thunder’s Montana chapter, got to Fort Carson in Colorado, the base commander told him, “You’re asking us to kill ourselves.”
“The roads are almost impossible to drive on.” We are dealing with whiteout, black ice, and mountain passes that civilians can’t get to.
Big Jake said in a calm voice, “That boy rode into hell for this country.” The frost from the journey down had stuck to his gray beard.
“We can at least ride through some snow to get him home to his mom.”
There were forty-six other bikers behind him, all wearing leather and with snow on their shoulders. Their bikes were still humming as they cooled off.
They were between the ages of 23 and 74. People who fought in Vietnam, Desert Storm, Iraq, and Afghanistan. They had arrived from six different states, leaving their families and Christmas preparations behind.
The commander looked at this gathering of frozen bikers that didn’t appear to belong together. “This isn’t something I can let happen.” It’s not safe enough.
“I didn’t ask for permission,” Big Jake replied. “I asked about our Marine.” “We’ll sign any liability waivers you need.
What happened in the next 72 hours would make news all around the country and show people what respect really looks like.
Three weeks ago, when someone knocked on Sarah Chen’s door, she was shocked. Two Marines in dress uniforms spoke the words that every military parent hates to hear: “We regret to inform you…”
Danny was the only child she had. Danny’s dad, Michael, died in a motorcycle accident when Danny was 12. The boy loved his dad, kept his leather vest, and promised to ride one day. But at first, he wanted to serve in the same way his grandfather had in Vietnam.
Before he went, he told his mother, “I’ll ride when I get back.” “Father would want me to serve first.”
He was coming home in a coffin, and the military was treating the trip like a problem with logistics. “Depends on the weather.” It seemed like her son was being handled like a piece of cargo instead than a hero.
She couldn’t sleep, so she blogged about her pain online at 2 AM: “My son’s body is in a warehouse at Fort Carson.” They say they might be able to fly him home after the New Year. He wanted to be buried next to his father. He wanted to go back home for Christmas. But the weather isn’t going along with their ideas.
There have been swift replies. Prayers, sympathy, and anger. Then, at three
At 8:00 AM, a man named Jake Reynolds sent me a message that said, “Ma’am, give me 6 hours.” Your son is on his way home.
She thought it was a cruel joke. She kept thinking this till 8 AM, when her phone rang.
“Mrs. Chen? Hello, this is Captain Martinez from Fort Carson. There is a biker club here that wants to take your son home. They won’t go until we give them his body.
“A bunch of people on motorcycles?” Sarah said in a soft voice.
“Yes, ma’am.” Rolling Thunder. They have a motorcycle trailer with a customized hearse, all the appropriate permits, and everything else they need. They promise to ride through the snowstorm to bring Corporal Chen home. I tried to explain how dangerous it is, but he stopped. “Ma’am, they won’t take no for an answer.”
Sarah started to cry. “My husband rode with Rolling Thunder.” “My husband rode with Rolling Thunder before he died.” “Danny kept his vest.”
“Yes, ma’am.” They told us. That’s why they are here.
The ride was bad from the start. They left Fort Carson at noon with Danny’s casket safely in the motorbike hearse. The motorcycle had been changed to include stabilizers and a cover to keep it safe. It was built just to carry dead riders.
It was 18 degrees outside. The wind chill made it seem like zero. There was so much snow that they could barely see twenty feet in front of them.
“Stay tight,” Big Jake ordered into his headset. “Be careful with how far apart things are.” No heroes.
They rode in two lines on either side of the hearse. They changed sites every fifty miles so the bikers who were breaking wind didn’t get too cold. At gas stops, they examined each other for frostbite, made them sip hot coffee, and then kept going.
The Highway Patrol in Wyoming tried to stop them. “Roads are closed. You have to go back.
Big Jake said, “No can do, officer.” “We’re bringing a Marine home to see his mom.”
The police officer looked at the casket, which was covered with flags that could be seen through the clear side panels of the hearse. He looked different.
He yelled “Follow me” from his cruiser. “I’ll make room.”
More cops came as word spread. When they got to Montana, the police escorted them all the way there with lights flashing through the snow.
The news picked up the tale. They couldn’t be seen by a chopper that tried to film them. At rest stations, reporters chatted to the people who were riding:
“Why are you doing this?”
Maria, a 58-year-old rider whose son died in Iraq, stated, “Because someone has to.” “Because this boy’s mother shouldn’t have to wait for the government to bring her baby home on Christmas.”
Are you putting your lives at risk?
Tommy, 74, a Vietnam veteran who lost three fingers to frostbite in the Hanoi Hilton, said, “He risked his for us.” “A little snow won’t stop us.”
They rode for 18 hours on the first day. We stopped at a truck stop outside of Casper, and the owner observed the parade and wouldn’t take our money for food and coffee.
She said, “My grandson is deployed,” and tears came to her eyes. “Take that boy home.” “On the house.”
As the procession left, truckers in the lot stood with their hands over their hearts, establishing a line of reverence to the highway.
The second day was considerably worse. A unusual storm blew through and made it hard to see. Three bikers fell on black ice. They fell off their bikes and had some bruises and scrapes, but they got back on and kept going.
“Maybe we should just wait it out,” someone remarked.
Big Jake said, “Your mom is waiting.” “We ride.”
The motorbike hearse encountered some ice 200 miles from Millfield. Cooper, who used to be a Marine and was driving, was able to keep it upright, but the trailer moved around a lot.
They paused to stare at the casket. It had moved a little, but it was still safe. While they were trying to fix it, a pickup truck stopped.
“Do you boys need help?” An old rancher stepped out and glanced around. “Are you carrying a soldier?”
“Marine,” Big Jake said. “Taking him home to Millfield.”
The rancher nodded slowly. “My son died in Vietnam.” I never had the chance to welcome him home in the right way. He pulled out his phone. “Please wait ten minutes.”
What happened was nothing short of a miracle. There were twelve pickup pickups with snow chains that made a circle around the riders to protect them. The rancher had called all the veterans and military families within fifty miles.
He said, “We’ll put you in a box.” “Let it go, get out of the way.” Just think about how to keep that Marine safe.
They rode all night with a guide they didn’t expect. There were pickups in front clearing the snow, trucks behind blocking the wind, and bikers in the middle protecting their fallen brother.
At daybreak on the third day, they reached the edge of Millfield city. Everyone in town was waiting.
On every street, people stood in the snow with flags and saluted. The high school band played outside in the cold. In their ancient uniforms, veterans stood at attention.
At the end of Main Street was Sarah Chen.
The queue of people came to a standstill in front of her. Big Jake got off his bike, which had been ailing him for three days, and walked over to her.
“Ma’am,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “We brought your son home.”
Sarah fell into his arms and sobbed. As the casket was transported to the hearse that would take Danny to the funeral home, the other riders got off their horses and stood watch.
But Sarah wanted to see the bike that had transported him home before it left. She walked over to the motorcycle hearse, put her hand on the cold metal, and spoke something that no one else could hear.
Later, at the funeral home, she informed Big Jake what she had said:
“I told him his dad would be proud.” That real bikers never leave their buddies behind. That men like the ones his dad rode with had carried him home. They are the kind of guys who always come through when it counts.
The funeral took place two days later, on Christmas Eve. Everyone who rode stayed for it. There were forty-seven motorcyclists in full-dress leather standing in the snow at the cemetery when Danny was buried next to his father.
A Marine played taps on a trumpet. They folded the flag and handed it to Sarah. And then, all of a sudden, Big Jake put something on the casket before it was lowered.
A leather vest. Danny had kept Michael Chen’s vest safe. Sarah had given Big Jake the vest that morning.
She said, “His dad’s vest.” “Danny should have it by now.” He should go with his dad.
The casket went down at the same time as forty-seven motorcycles started their motors. The sound echoed around the cemetery as a final tribute to a Marine who had died and the father he had looked up to.
The story was on the news all around the country on Christmas Day. “Bikers Ride Through Blizzard to Bring Home a Dead Marine.” The story rapidly got a lot of attention. Sarah got a lot of donations, more than she needed. She used the extra money to launch the Danny Chen Memorial Fund, which helps transfer dead service members when the military’s logistics fail.
But more importantly, people’s opinions of motorcycle clubs shifted. People dubbed the same groups thugs and troublemakers, but they did what the government couldn’t do: they brought a hero home to his mother for Christmas.
Big Jake got thousands of texts after that. People are requesting for interviews, praising you, and telling you about bikers who assisted them.
He didn’t say anything to any of them. But he did put one note in a frame and place it up in his garage:
“Mr. Reynolds, you never met my kid. You didn’t have to risk your life in the storm. But you did, because that’s what great heroes do. Danny wanted to go home and ride his bike. He never got the chance. But he did get to ride in a way. Forty-seven angels in leather showed the way. I’ll always remember what you did for us. – Sarah Chen
On the anniversary of that trip, forty-seven riders came back to Millfield a year later. They rode to the cemetery where Danny and his father were buried and laid forty-seven roses on the graves.
Then they rode to Sarah’s place, where she had cooked dinner for everyone. Her new family. The brothers who had taken her son home when no one else would.
Big Jake gave her a vest and said, “You’re now a member of Rolling Thunder.” “Member of honor.” Because family is more than simply genetics.
Sarah was happy to wear the vest. That spring, she began to ride. She used Danny’s dad’s old bike, which had been sitting in her garage for a long time. At 56, she started a biker and went on toy runs and charity rides while thinking about her husband and child.
On Christmas Eve, forty-seven motorbikes ride to Millfield, Montana. They stand in the snow next to two graves and remember the ride that changed everything for them.
The trip proved what bikers have always known: when the government says “wait,” when everyone else says “can’t,” and when common sense says “impossible,” they respond “watch us.”
They show up.
They are ready to go through anything that needs to be done.
And they never, ever leave a brother behind.
Not even while it’s snowing. Not even if it means risking everything. Not even when everyone else says to wait for better times.
There are some things that just can’t wait. Some promises can’t wait. No matter what, some rides have to happen.
Forty-seven strangers who became family brought Danny Chen home for Christmas. He made it through the blizzard with the support of people who realized that honor isn’t always easy to uphold.
It’s everything.
And sometimes it rumbles on two wheels.