Monster on a Tricycle: How a Tattooed Biker Brings Joy to Dying Children
Not all heroes wear capes. Some arrive roaring down hospital halls on a tiny pink tricycle, tattoos gleaming, beard gray, heart wide open. You might think he looks terrifying—but for children at the end of life, he’s pure magic.
The biker known as Monster pedals his tricycle through hospice corridors, and dying kids chase him, screaming with joy. I’m Sarah Mitchell, the new hospice director, and I watched this 6’5” tattooed man wheel past my office while eight bald kids in wheelchairs laughed as if life itself had returned to them.
“Who is that?” I asked a nurse.
“That’s Robert ‘Monster’ McGraw,” she replied. “He’s been coming every Tuesday for nine years, ever since his grandson died here.”
I watched him crash the tricycle on purpose, sprawl dramatically, and let the children climb all over him—a man covered in skull tattoos letting dying kids treat him like a jungle gym.
A little girl tugged my sleeve. “Are you going to make Monster leave? He’s the only one who doesn’t look at us like we’re already gone.”
My heart stopped. “What?”
She explained the former director had tried to ban him because parents found him scary—but the children loved him.
I found a folder on my desk: twelve formal complaints from parents. “He looks like a criminal. He’s frightening. I don’t want him near my child.”
Beneath that stack were forty-three letters from families whose children had passed:
“Monster held my daughter the night she died. He made sure she wasn’t afraid.”
“My son laughed for the first time in months because of Monster.”
I found him in the playroom, showing children a phoenix tattoo. “It’s a bird that dies and comes back stronger,” he explained. “I got this after my grandson Tommy died. He lives here, in my heart.”
A little girl asked, “Will someone remember me?” Monster’s eyes filled with tears. “Every single one of you. I’ll tattoo a star for each child on my chest, so you’ll never be forgotten.”
Later, Monster approached me, trembling. “Should I stop coming?”
“Tell me about Tommy,” I said.
He spoke of his grandson’s final months—terrified, scared of dying. “One day, he said I looked like a superhero. I promised I’d help other kids feel the same.” Nine years later, sixty-three children had his promise in ink—sixty-three stars on his chest.
I pushed the folders toward him. “Parents want you banned. Families want you here.”
Monster’s hands shook. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Keep coming every Tuesday. Ride that tricycle. The children’s happiness outweighs adult discomfort.”
Over weeks, most complaining parents withdrew. Forty families stayed, letting their children spend final days laughing and playing.
Monster even brought his motorcycle club. Big, intimidating bikers joined in tea parties, Hot Wheels races, and storytelling.
Five-year-old Sophia, with hours left, spent eighteen hours with Monster holding her hand, telling stories of heaven and Tommy waiting for her. She died peacefully, comforted, loved. Monster tattooed a star in her honor.
He began “Tommy’s Riders,” a nationwide organization of bikers volunteering at children’s hospices. Today, chapters exist in thirty-eight states, supporting hundreds of bikers and thousands of children.
Monster, now seventy, still pedals his tiny tricycle every Tuesday. His chest bears 147 stars—each representing a child who died knowing they mattered.
A mother recently arrived, tears in her eyes: “Is it true? Monster comes here?”
“Yes,” I nodded. Her daughter will know the same joy—laughter, comfort, and love in a world that often denies dying children both.
Monster doesn’t save lives—he saves their final moments. He turns fear into fun, despair into dignity. Judge him by his appearance if you want. The children know the truth: he’s an angel disguised as a biker.
And when he finally rides into heaven, 147 children will be waiting—ready to take him on the greatest ride of all.
Conclusion
Sometimes, the most unlikely heroes leave the biggest impact. One tattooed grandfather, a tiny pink tricycle, and a promise to a dying child have reshaped hospice care nationwide. Monster proves that love, joy, and courage can be disguised in the most unexpected forms—and that even in the shadow of death, laughter and dignity are always possible.