Daniel Davis was a biker’s biker, with tattoos, Harleys, club colors and all, so he pretended to ignore his doctor’s words in the hospital room.
Known as “Red Baron” in the Invaders Motorcycle Club, he didn’t have much longer to live.
Cancer was squeezing the life out of the 52-year-old redhead. And despite a steady morphine drip, pain surged through his body like cold knives into warm flesh. It didn’t stop him from shooting the bull with his friend, “Landfill,” before he wanted to be left alone with his thoughts.
Davis had a conversation with God. It was a one-way conversation. God listened.
In his heyday, Davis was a mountain of a man who stood 6-foot-7-inches tall with more than 400 pounds stuffed under his fluffy red beard. He joined the Invaders as a freckled-faced teenager after moving to Northwest Indiana from Missouri in the early 1970’s.
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“There was no backup in him. He was a no-(frills) mother(expletive),” his friend Mongo told me more than 20 years ago.
The Invaders was founded in 1965 in Gary, Indiana. Members call it a club. Critics call it a gang. Davis called it family. I remember those bikers rumbling down the street of my childhood home in Gary every day, scaring the hell out of kids like me. I never looked them in the eye as they roared past.
Our society has been fascinated and intimidated with biker clubs/gangs for decades. Invaders. Hells Angels. Outlaws. The list goes on. Their faces change. Their reputation doesn’t.
This newspaper ran a story about an alleged Hells Angel biker from Indianapolis who raised hell in a Cedar Lake, Indiana, bar. He was later captured by police after being coaxed out of a home by a SWAT team negotiator, police said.
Readers drank it down like a bottle of Jack after a long motorcycle ride on a sweltering day. There’s something about these clubs/gangs that grabs our attention and doesn’t let go, as if we’re young kids staring at a blaring parade of Invaders as I once did.
“Due mainly to misreporting by news media and TV shows that fictionalize our way of life, there are many misconceptions about the terms ‘one-percenter’ and ‘Outlaw’ motorcycle club,” the Invaders website states. “To those who wonder what we’re all about, our late brother Mongo may have said it best: the Invaders Motorcycle Club is about two things — riding our motorcycles and loving our brothers.”
Davis, who had an “Invaders” tattoo across his chest, had a final wish before his death. He wanted to return to his St. Louis home, make peace with his mother, unite his two families, and die where he was born, not in Valparaiso where he last lived.
“Baron was at peace with his dying. He just wanted to see his mother,” Landfill said.
She lived in a nursing home in the St. Louis area. Davis was in no shape to ride his motorcycle there. He didn’t have much money for an ambulance ride. Sharon Wendt, a hospital social worker, heard his final wish and began working her magic. She described Davis as a “gentle giant.”
“He told me flat out, ‘Don’t be sorry for me. I’ve had a great life,’” Wendt told me.
She found two nonprofit organizations to donate money for Davis’ last wish. A local pilot volunteered to fly Davis to St. Louis.
“She went above and beyond what she had to do,” Landfill told me. “This sort of kindness just doesn’t happen to people with our lifestyle.”
Lori Buksar, a hospital emergency room nurse, volunteered to fly aboard the Pilatus PC-12, eight-seater that would take Davis home. When Davis first met Buksar, his appreciative handshake engulfed her tiny fingers.
“Thank you and God bless you,” Davis told her.
On a bright cold December morning, Davis’ “brothers” with the Invaders arrived at his hospital and airport to say their goodbyes.
“We knew it was the last time we’d see him,” Landfill said.
Buksar, who witnessed the exchange, said, “You just felt the love when you entered the room.”
The plane’s pilot removed seats to accommodate the oversized stretcher and loads of extra medical equipment. The crew and Landfill struggled to hoist Davis into the plane.
“Please don’t drop me,” Davis joked.
Inside the plane, Landfill told Davis, “I love you brother more than you’ll ever know.”
“I love you, too,” Davis replied. “Tell all my brothers I love them.”
“The Compassion Flight,” as it was dubbed, took off from the Porter County, Indiana, Airport. It arrived at the Fort Leonard Wood military air base near Davis’ sister’s house in Edgar Springs, Missouri.
His sister, Ethel Wood, greeted him. At her home, Davis was coherent but restless. His body pulsed in pain.
“The only time he cried was when he caught us crying,” his sister said.
The next morning, his 84-year-old mom, Lois Davis, visited him from her nursing home. She talked with her son for a few hours, ate lunch and hugged him. Davis’ sister stroked his hand from his bedside.
“Now get my bike ready,” Davis told her. “I’m going for a ride.”
Ethel asked him, “What?”
Her little brother repeated it again.
“Get my bike ready, I’m going for a ride,” he said.
Then he closed his eyes, made a half smile, and died. A single tear escaped his left eye and crossed his cheek. His entire visit home lasted only 27 hours.
Several hundred people showed up for Davis’ funeral on Dec. 8, 2001, mostly bikers. Flowers and cards from Hells Angels and other biker groups flooded in. It was a fine Southern funeral service at the rural Flat Church of God, despite “a preacher who preached too much,” according to Mongo. The song, “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother” greeted guests.
Davis’ remains were cremated.
“Baron always said he didn’t want to break anyone’s back with a coffin,” Mongo joked.
Davis’ biker colors were burned and placed in the same urn as his ashes. Some bikers kissed it, others talked to it. Pistols were shot into the air. The Invaders call it their 21-gun salute.
“All that love just to help one person, my little brother. I can’t believe it,” Wood told me.
I replied, “I guess God listened.”
Last month, out of the blue, I heard from Davis’ granddaughter on social media. She read my initial column from more than 20 years ago. It made her mom cry, she said.
“I wanted to say thank you,” she said. “In a way, you gave my mom her dad back.”
Contact Jerry at Jerry.Davich@nwi.com. Find him on Facebook and other socials. Opinions are those of the writer.