My father grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in a small Michigan town, where he and my uncle did the types of things that young, not-so-privileged boys did in the 1950’s and ’60’s: shot foxes on the public golf course, skied behind school buses, and hung out with their older cousins. Those cousins…they rode motorcycles. Panhead Harleys, Indians, Triumphs, Bultacos, Nortons, Elsinores. Street, dirt, flat track…it didn’t matter. However, none of them ran worth a crap. They were always working on them, which left time for the two youngsters to hang around and check out the bikes and learn a thing.
One afternoon, during a brief interlude between repairs, one of the older, wiser cousins thought it would be a good idea to take my Pops for a ride on his Indian. Of course, living in the sticks, lots of the roads were gravel and dirt. And of course, being related to me, speed often trumps common sense and good decisions. Off they went, the big twin roaring from open, unbaffled pipes, gravel flying as the bike spun the tire and the frame swung out to the right…and right into a ditch. My dad was pinned under the bike, caught between hundreds of pounds of hot American iron and the course, skin-shearing gravel.
After that sort of a start, it’s a wonder the old man ever got on a bike again, but he 
did. When I took to that old mini-trail, he got it in his head to get some bikes. So it began, much to the distress of my poor mother. We had a series of bikes over the years, mostly just old trail bikes. We rode the dirt roads around the lake, and eventually started trailering the bikes to some of the really great motorcycle trail systems in Michigan like Leota and Evart where we had some real adventures. Two very vivid memories include having to use vice grip pliers to keep the rear axle from coming out of the old Yamaha DT250 after the axle nut fell off, and following dear old dad down a hill where he promptly stopped right at the bottom, leaving me to lock up the brakes, hit a rock, and go ass over elbows over the handlebars. Thanks again for that maneuver, Dad.
Well, Pops is a lot older now. The patches of gray, much of which I caused, no doubt, have spread; the “seasoned” salt-and-pepper look giving way to white. Glasses are no longer optional. Medications are required. The hands, the knees, the back…they’re not what they used to be. Basically, that shit’s all out of warranty. I think it’s safe to say that his days of whoops, sand dunes, wheelies, log jumps, and hill climbs are behind him.
In their golden years, he and my mom are doing what old people from Michigan do; they’re moving to Florida. Good for them, I say. Only down side is that my dad, who is perpetual tinkerer, has to give up his building full of tools and, well, basically a complete machine shop. The little condo places down there aren’t set up to build hot rods and restore classic cars. Left without a hobby, he’s sure to drive my mother, and himself, absolutely insane.
It’s been quite a few years now since we sold the last of the dirt bikes, and I thought maybe it had worked its way out of him. But I’ll tell ya, when I pulled up after I first got my Dyna and he sat on it, I could see it in his eyes. He was a young man again, cruising down the road, wind in his hair. He looked comfortable, at home.
All those bikes, all those years, I don’t believe I ever paid for a one of them. So, last month, I got to pay back a bit. After some conversations, poking, and prodding, I acquired a beautiful little Harley Sportster, 2003 Anniversary Edition. It’s just the type of thing a guy could cruise around a Florida neighborhood with, harassing the golfers and alligators at 6:30 in the morning. Not quite as rebellious as shooting fox on the golf course, but still. I loaded that Sporty on the trailer and took it up to my folks place and handed the old man the keys. He told my very concerned mother, “every guy wants to ride a motorcycle.” Damn straight, Pops. Enjoy!