A Ride With Dad


Dad has been in love with two-wheelers since his first bicycle. From the bicycle he moved up to a moped; from the moped, to a small scooter; from there to a little motorcycle; and then on to a bigger motorcycle. I don’t know how many bikes he has ridden over the years. Dad is one of the relatively few people today who can say he has ridden on a classic Indian Chief.

When I was a child he sometimes took my brother and me riding on his Mitsubishi Silver Pigeon (that was actually what they called it) scooter until we accidentally disabled it for him (long story there). He also took us riding on his big Honda CB series motorcycle. At first we rode astride the gas tank, with Dad’s very long arms enclosing us. As we got a little older we took turns riding behind him on the pillion seat. This was a privilege that we almost fought over.

By the time I was old enough to learn to start riding circumstances had moved Dad away from his motorcycles. I rode four-wheelers some and messed around a bit with mopeds and small scooters. But I never learned to ride a motorcycle.

Recently Dad got back into motorcycling with a big Kawasaki Vulcan 1500 cruiser bike. More recently he bought a no-name Chinese scooter for commuting to work. It is one of those scooters that resembles a hybrid between a small motorcycle and a scooter. Dad hoped that perhaps he could convince Mom to ride it so that they could ride in the countryside together. So far she has lacked the confidence to try it.

I have kept up my bicycling on a regular basis and so felt up to trying it out. The scooter proved easy to ride and operate. This is just as well, since the operator’s manual was written by someone with comically poor English skills. If I had had to learn to ride with only that manual for guidance, I would have had a long process of trial and error.

Later in the day after my riding lesson Dad suggested that we go for a ride. After all these years it would be my first time riding with him on a bike of my own. I jumped at the chance. So Dad brought out his big Kawasaki and gave me a helmet and told me where we would head first. He cranked up his machine and led us out of the driveway of his and Mom’s house.

The Kawasaki’s engine rumbled with the classic sound of a large-bore motorcycle. My mount’s power plant, with literally only one tenth the Kawasaki’s displacement, made more of a buzzing noise. It still sounded smoother than the feeble putt-putt or angry hornet’s buzz I’ve usually heard from small bikes. It had plenty of power to carry me as fast as any reasonable person would care to go on that narrow county road.

First we headed up the road toward the little brick church a few miles from the house. I used to ride this stretch of road all the time on Dad’s bus route. The scenery has changed a bit over the years. Some wooded spots have been cleared; some clear areas have grown over. Some houses have been abandoned and fallen into decay. Others have been newly built or remodeled. Some do not look so different from the way I always remember them. The pretty older house behind the big trees on the hill above the stock pond still looks the nicest of any of them. The brick church has not changed much either.

At the church Dad stopped and we turned around and headed back. We passed the house where we had started and rode on into town, about two miles further on. In town Dad turned onto the street that led past the grade school. The streets in this area used to be some of the worst of a generally bad lot. In recent years the town’s streets have improved a great deal. We still had to slalom between potholes here and there. Dad did not lead me any place where a novice could not safely ride.

We passed the school and the big cemetery a few blocks further on and ran past the city limits onto Smithton Road. Not too many years ago this road was all gravel. Now it is a narrow paved route. It still leads past assorted houses and patches of swamp. For a while it parallels the railroad tracks. Then it takes a sharp left up over the railway embankment and heads toward the highway.

At the highway Dad stopped and informed me over the racket of the two engines that we would cross the highway onto nearby Moon Valley Road. This was a treat. Dad used to drive a bus here too, when I was very little. This was a church bus route. The bus sometimes crossed a pair of rickety old bridges that scared me then. We stayed on Moon Valley Road itself and avoided the bridges. The road is paved now.

Moon Valley is easily the most scenic area near the town. The countryside is open and rolling, with plenty of open fields and generally nice-looking houses. Over head we had a perfect blue sky. Here and there cows, horses, and in one place donkeys watched us pass. On the edge of one field three boys who had been riding a four-wheeler investigated something along the fence row.

At an intersection some way down the road Dad turned us around and we headed back for home, past all the sights we had seen earlier. The boys on the edge of the field had re-mounted their four-wheeler and were now on the field’s far side. A little dog that had chased us earlier played it safe and avoided us this time, to my relief.

We found Smithton Road rougher going on the way back. The side we rode heading into town was the one nearest the swamp and had subsided into potholes the most. At one point we negotiated a narrow strip of smooth pavement between a badly sunken spot on one side and a water-filled ditch on the other. Some way past there we passed an older house painted as bright blue as the sky. A man enjoying the spring day on the porch gave us a wave as we passed.

As we rode a song from several years ago kept running through my head. In it a son sang of how his father had once told him a secret about a father’s love—that it is not a sometimes thing, but lasts. It occurred to me that I had that kind of father. I thought too about the loving father and son, and the sacrifice they had made that we would be celebrating at church the next day.

Growing up with the father I did makes it much easier for me to believe in loving fathers, whether heavenly or earthly. I can’t imagine the hurt and loss of those who did not have that blessing. I married someone who did miss out on that growing up. Perhaps that explains some of the problems that I see there in both loving and accepting love.

Riding that day was a lot of fun. What mattered most was that it was riding with Dad. He has done far more for me than I will ever be able to repay. And he is still doing it. That’s who he is.