m e m b e r s o n ly
B
ack in 1990, I was college student at the University of Arizona, my mom had just suddenly died and as an only child, I was worried about how my father was coping — living alone a few hours away, in Phoenix. While I fretted about how my poor dad would pass the time, I shouldn’t have bothered. As it happened, the old guy still had a surprise or two up his sleeve. He had planned a weekend visit down to Tucson to visit me at school. Expecting him, I happened to walk out into the dusty front yard of my rented adobe house just as a cherry red Gold Wing glinting in the sun rounded the corner and coasted gracefully into my driveway. While I puzzled over my unexpected visitor, the rider removed his helmet and my jaw dropped — it was my dad?
42
NOVEMber 2013
Um, on a motorcycle? Oh, I had heard stories over the years, tales that I only halfbelieved — about how as a 12-year old, he had motorized his Schwinn bicycle using a Wizzer Engine Kit; how in high school he had both a World War II surplus Cushman scooter and a BSA trail bike. There were even a few family photos of him hoisting a toddler-sized me up on to the gas tank of an old Yamaha offroader — but I couldn’t personally recollect seeing him ever go anywhere near a motorcycle. As I suppose it happens for many, somewhere along life’s road, amidst the work and children and relationships and responsibility, my dad’s love for riding had just been temporarily pushed aside in favor of four-wheel practicality.