Paths taken, choices made
I wish I could chime in and say "sounds like my dad, too!" But that is certainly not the case. When it became time for my dad- a three-sport athlete who threw two no hitters in college and was heavily scouted by the pros- to make his choices about his future, he followed his own father's advice and took the "safe route" and became a dentist. A damn good one, too, judging by the life my family had growing up. He never owned a hot car (preferred big Caddilacs), and he just about had a nervous breakdown when I started riding motorcycles.
20 years later, he's retired, and I have still never given him a ride, and he's still never asked to go on one. He still won't even mention to his friends that I ride bikes. It is still an issue between us. My committment to riding is total. He continues to warn me I'll die on my bike. That's about where it stands.
Just recently, in a long ride (in the minivan) to a football game, my dad got quiet and admitted what he had never admitted before: he regretted not choosing to try professional baseball all those years ago. I picture a young man, under the hard gaze of his stern father, comitting to the safe path, and forgoing his true calling. So it was the same with he and I, except I took the less secure path, and while it has been a struggle, I look back at all the trips I took on my bikes, the people I met, the photos and articles, and it fills me with a quiet joy that no money could buy.
Dad and I get along fine despite the tenor of this message, and if you're in the same boat, I wish you the best in getting your pops to take that one ride with you that might open his eyes to the joy of motorcycling. I'm almost done fixing up a 1976 Goldwing, and I think it may be the bike that get's him to strap on a helmet, if only once.
Happy holidays to the MO crew and all the readers.
Bill R.
GreatOldbikes