I grew up around cows, rice fields, home cooking, and motorcycles.
My father rode every kind of bike in every kind of race, my
brothers followed suit. I remember his races at cycle-land, his enduro
adventures to Nevada, his mountain climbs in Elk Creek, but mostly I
remember him fixing bikes and talking shop with my brothers and
cousins, in his barn.
On any given day there were a ton of guys, mostly younger than
my father, in his barn converted into a motorcycle shop. My father use
to say, "Out of all the guys around here, you went and fell in love
with a French Man?" I use to tease him back by saying, "Yeah, your shop
kept them fixated on rims, chrome and speed… how could I compete?"
Planning for this trip has brought motorcycle memories of my father
to the surface. Memories of rides, races, accidents, shop talk, and him
in full riding gear, I wish I had a photo of him in his chaps.
As I sorted and put things aside for our trip I have seen my father,
(French Husband's helmet and boots were a gift from him) standing with
his hands on his hips looking at me, reassuring me with his smile. My
father rode often, and he had it down to a science. These last few days
I have felt him my side pointing to things, reminding me of things, encouraging me "..take a bungee cord or
two, they'll come in handy. Remind Ann to take some tools. Shot, I
wish I could give him some of mine…. pack light, pack warm… but
pack light."
I feel him, and tears run down my face. God he was a good dad, so
easy going, emotional available, tender hearted, and full of life.
I am riding for him.
and him.
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