As a kid, I hated that my dad was a motorcycle mechanic. While other parents wore suits and drove nice cars, mine came home covered in grease, smelling like gasoline. I was embarrassed by his old Harley, his tattoos, his rough hands.
I called him “Frank” instead of “Dad” in front of my friends. At my graduation, I refused to hug him. Three weeks later, he died in a motorcycle accident, and I felt nothing—until his funeral.
Hundreds of bikers showed up, each wearing an orange ribbon—his trademark. Strangers told stories about how he helped them: organizing charity rides, delivering medicine in snowstorms, stopping for every stranded driver.
A lawyer gave me a satchel he left behind. Inside was a letter: “A man’s worth isn’t in his job, but in the lives he changes.” There were also bank statements—he had donated over $180,000 to charity.
I rode his Harley in his annual charity ride, leading a procession that raised thousands for a child’s surgery. For the first time, I was proud to be his son.
Now, I run a program in his shop, teaching at-risk teens how to fix bikes—and themselves.
My father wasn’t just a mechanic. He was the best man I’ve ever known.
