When my eighteen-year-old son asked to buy a motorcycle, all I could see was my best friend’s body broken at the bottom of that mountain ravine twelve years ago, and I couldn’t decide whether to share my life’s passion or protect my boy from the death that still haunts my dreams.
I still hear the crash when I close my eyes at night. Metal twisting. Tires screaming. Mike’s voice cut short mid-laugh. We’d been brothers of the road for thirty years, from the day we bought matching Sportsters at twenty-one to the morning his Electra Glide went over the guardrail while I watched, helpless, from fifty yards back.
The official report said he was going twelve miles per hour over the advisory speed for that curve. Twelve lousy miles. Such a small number with such permanent consequences.
I keep riding because stopping would feel like another death. But I ride different now. Cautious. The wild freedom replaced by the heavy weight of knowing exactly how fast life can end on two wheels.
And now Joshua stands before me in our garage, holding the classified ads open to motorcycles for sale.
“I found a starter bike, Dad,” he says, eyes bright with excitement. “A used Honda Shadow. Guy’s only asking two thousand. Will you come look at it with me?”
The garage suddenly feels too small, too hot. On the wall behind him hang photographs – Josh as a toddler sitting on my parked Harley, grinning. Mike and me on our cross-country ride the summer before he died. Mike holding baby Joshua at the hospital, joking that he’d be riding before walking.
“Dad?” Joshua’s voice pulls me back. “You okay?”
What can I tell him? That every time I think of him on a bike, I see Mike’s broken body? That I’ve spent twelve years trying to outrun the memory of my best friend’s last ride? That I can’t bear the thought of losing my son the same way?
Or do I tell him about the freedom I’ve known for forty years? The brotherhood of the road? The man I became with wind in my face and nothing between me and America but two wheels and an engine?
My mouth goes dry as I look at my son—no longer a child but a young man with the same fire in his eyes that once burned in mine. I’ve spent his entire life sharing stories about the open road, the adventures, the brotherhood. Now he wants to join that world, and I’m terrified of letting him.
I can’t decide what to do. Should I preserve his safety and deny him this rite of passage? Or should I honor Mike’s memory and my own identity by passing on the tradition, knowing the risks it carries?
Mike and I had been planning that Rocky Mountain ride for months. Both of us had turned fifty that year, and we wanted to celebrate three decades of friendship and riding together. His wife Sarah had died two years earlier from breast cancer, and the road was the only place he found peace anymore.
“This ride’s gonna reset everything, Jack,” he told me the night before we left. “I need this, brother. Need to remember what living feels like.”
We’d covered five states in ten days, sleeping under the stars most nights, talking about everything and nothing. Mike seemed lighter than he had since Sarah passed. The road was working its medicine.
That morning started with blue skies and empty highways. Perfect riding weather. We’d planned to cross the continental divide by noon, have lunch at this little diner Mike remembered from a ride in his twenties.
“You’re gonna love this place, Jack,” he shouted over the engines as we fueled up. “Best damn green chili in Colorado!”
I remember every detail of that morning with the crystal clarity of trauma. The temperature was 62 degrees. Mike was wearing his faded denim jacket with the eagle patch. He’d switched from his half helmet to my spare full-face because I’d been lecturing him about safety.
“Fine, old man,” he’d laughed, strapping it on. “If it’ll shut you up about statistics.”
We hit the mountain roads just after 10 AM. The aspens were changing color, gold against the evergreens. Mike was riding lead, about fifty yards ahead on a road that curved gently through the mountains.
I saw the logging truck before he did. It was taking the curve wide, too fast, part of its load jutting over the center line. I hit my brakes, laid on my horn.
Mike looked back at me, confused by the warning. That split second of distraction was all it took. By the time he turned around, the truck was there. He swerved hard to avoid it, overcorrected, hit gravel on the shoulder.
People say accidents happen in slow motion. That’s not true. They happen impossibly fast, leaving your brain to fill in details later, trying to make sense of the senseless.
One moment Mike was riding. The next, his bike was sliding toward the guardrail, and he was separated from it, airborne. The ravine beyond the rail was steep, dotted with rocks and pines.
I don’t remember stopping my bike. Don’t remember running to the rail. Don’t remember screaming his name.
By the time I got down to him, guided by the truck driver who was calling 911 with shaking hands, I knew. His neck was at an impossible angle. The helmet I’d insisted he wear was cracked open like an egg.
My best friend died because he looked back at me instead of forward at danger.
Sometimes I think I died there too, part of me splinted away like the pieces of his bike scattered across the mountainside. The part that believed in the pure joy of riding, untainted by fear.
—
I never told Joshua the full story before. Just that Uncle Mike had an accident in the mountains. He was ten when it happened, too young for details. By the time he was old enough to understand, the habit of silence was set.
Now he sits on an overturned milk crate in our garage, the classified ads forgotten on the floor, listening as I finally tell him everything.
When I finish, he’s quiet for a long time. The silence stretches between us like the empty road that remained after Mike was gone.
“So that’s why you ride different now,” he finally says.
I look up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Mom says you used to ride all the time, everywhere. Now it’s just occasional Sunday rides, always the same routes. She said you used to live for it, but now you just do it like… like a duty. Like you’re visiting a grave.”
His insight hits like a physical blow. He’s right. I kept riding because stopping would dishonor Mike’s memory, but joy had been replaced by obligation.
“Maybe that’s true,” I admit.
Joshua picks up the classified ads, smooths them out. “But you still ride. Even after what happened, you still get on your bike.”
“It’s different,” I tell him. “I’m experienced. I know the risks.”
“And I don’t?” There’s a challenge in his voice. “Dad, you and Uncle Mike started riding when you were younger than I am now. You always told me stories about how riding taught you responsibility, taught you to be alert, to be in the moment.”
“That was before—”
“Before you watched your friend die.” His voice is gentle but firm. “I get that, Dad. I really do. And I’m sorry about Uncle Mike. I still remember how he used to let me sit on his bike and pretend to ride.”
The memory stings. Mike had been so good with Joshua. “He always said you’d be a natural rider.”
Joshua nods. “See, that’s the thing. When you tell stories about riding, even now, your whole face changes. Like you’re talking about something holy. Then when I say I want to try it, you look terrified. But you still ride. You must think there’s something worth the risk.”
I run my hand over my face, feeling the years in every line and crease. “It’s not that simple.”
“Nothing important is,” he says with a shrug. “But I’ve wanted this my whole life. I grew up watching you work on your bike, listening to your stories. This isn’t some passing phase.”
I look at my son, really look at him. Somehow, while I wasn’t paying attention, he’s become a man. Thoughtful. Determined. So much like me at that age it’s startling.
“Let me think about it,” I say finally.
He nods, knowing not to push. As he heads inside, he pauses at the door. “Dad? Thanks for telling me about Uncle Mike. About what really happened.”
After he’s gone, I sit alone in the garage, surrounded by memories. My eyes drift to the empty space beside my Harley, where Mike used to park when he came over. For a brief, crazy moment, I can almost hear his laugh.
“What would you do, brother?” I ask the empty space. “If it was your son?”
No answer comes. Just the distant sound of neighborhood kids playing and the faint smell of motor oil that never quite leaves this space.
—
That night, I can’t sleep. I toss and turn, my mind racing between memories and fears. Around 2 AM, I give up and head downstairs. The house is quiet except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, a wedding gift from my late father-in-law.
I find myself in the den, opening the bottom drawer of my desk where I keep the things I don’t look at often but can’t bear to throw away. Mike’s memorial card is there. The broken mirror from his bike I found at the accident scene days later. Keys to his house that I still have, though his sister sold the place years ago.
Beneath these, in a manila envelope, are the accident reports. I’ve read them once, when they arrived. Never again. Until tonight.
I spread them on the desk and force myself to read every clinical detail. Speed calculations. Impact assessments. Witness statements from the truck driver and two cars that had been behind us.
One detail jumps out that I’d forgotten or blocked: “Deceased was traveling approximately 12 mph over the posted advisory speed for the curve.”
Twelve miles per hour. Such a small number. Such a massive consequence.
The phone rings, startling me. Who calls at 2:30 AM except to deliver bad news? I grab it quickly before it can wake Ellen or Joshua.
“Hello?” My voice is tense.
“Jack? It’s Donna.” Mike’s sister. We keep in touch with Christmas cards and occasional calls, but never in the middle of the night.
“Donna? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She sounds strange. “I just… this is going to sound crazy, but I had to call. I had this dream about Mike. So vivid. He was telling me to call you, that you needed to hear something.”
The hair on my arms stands up. I’m not superstitious, but the timing is uncanny.
“What did he say?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“He said to tell you…” She pauses, and I can hear the emotion in her voice. “He said, ‘Tell Jack to let the boy ride. I’ll keep an eye on him from up here.’”
My hands go cold. “Donna, did Joshua call you? Talk to you recently?”
“Joshua? No, I haven’t spoken to him in months. Jack, what’s going on?”
I can’t explain the coincidence, the fact that my son just asked to start riding and now this call. “Nothing. Bad timing, that’s all.”
“Should I not have called? It was just so real, and with the anniversary coming up next month—”
“No, it’s fine,” I assure her. “Thanks for calling. Try to get some sleep.”
After we hang up, I sit in the dark for a long time. I don’t believe in messages from beyond. More likely my subconscious fears about Joshua riding have infected my conversations with people who knew Mike, who might be thinking of him as his death anniversary approaches.
And yet.
At dawn, I’m still awake, having reached no clear decision. I hear movement upstairs – Ellen getting ready for her early hospital shift. She finds me in the kitchen, staring at a cold cup of coffee.
“You look terrible,” she says, pressing a hand to my forehead. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Joshua wants to buy a motorcycle,” I tell her.
She sighs and sits across from me. “I know. He’s been talking about it for months. I told him to wait until he saved enough money before bringing it up with you.”
“And you’re okay with this?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice.
“I’m his mother. Of course I’m not okay with it.” She reaches for my hand. “But he’s eighteen. He’s careful and responsible. And he’s your son – bikes are in his blood.”
“Mike died on a motorcycle,” I remind her, as if she could forget.
“Yes. And you almost died in your father’s fishing boat when you were twelve, but you still take Joshua fishing.” She squeezes my hand. “Life is risk, Jack. We can’t bubble-wrap our children.”
“It’s different,” I insist.
“Is it? Or are you just more afraid of this particular risk because of Mike?”
Her question hangs between us. Before I can answer, she stands and grabs her purse.
“Whatever you decide, I’ll support you. But ask yourself this – if you say no, do you really think that will be the end of it? Or will he just wait until he moves out and buy a bike anyway, without your guidance and experience to help him?”
She kisses my cheek and leaves for work, the question echoing in the empty kitchen.
—
That afternoon, I find Joshua in the backyard, shooting baskets. He’s been doing this since he was little, working out problems through the rhythm of the bouncing ball.
“Got time for a drive?” I ask.
He looks surprised but nods. “Sure.”
We take my truck, not the bike. I drive us out of the suburbs, toward the country roads where traffic thins and the landscape opens up. Joshua doesn’t ask where we’re going. He waits, patient.
I pull into the gravel lot of Bernie’s Custom Cycles, a shop where I’ve been buying parts for thirty years. Joshua’s eyes widen, but he stays silent as we walk inside.
Bernie himself is behind the counter, older now, white-haired, but still built like the former Marine he is. He grins when he sees me.
“Jack Ferguson! Been too long.” He comes around the counter to shake my hand, then notices Joshua. “This must be your boy. Last time I saw him he was knee-high.”
“Good memory,” I say. “Bernie, we’re looking for a starter bike for Joshua here. Something reliable, not too powerful. Used is fine.”
Joshua’s head whips toward me, shock and hope warring on his face. Bernie, sensing the moment, excuses himself to “check inventory,” leaving us alone among the gleaming machines.
“Dad?” Joshua’s voice cracks slightly. “Are you serious?”
I take a deep breath. “I have conditions.”
He nods rapidly. “Anything.”
“First, you take the full motorcycle safety course before you even sit on a bike. Second, you wear all the gear, all the time – helmet, jacket, gloves, boots. Third, you ride with me for the first six months. No solo rides until I say you’re ready.”
“Agreed,” he says immediately. “Hundred percent.”
“Fourth,” I continue, “you maintain perfect grades. One slip, the bike gets parked until they come back up.”
“Not a problem.”
“And fifth,” I say, my voice growing serious, “you promise me something. Promise you’ll always ride like there’s someone waiting for you to come home. Because there is.”
His eyes shine with understanding. “I promise, Dad.”
Bernie returns, pretending he hasn’t been giving us space. “I might have something perfect out back. 2010 Honda Shadow. Low miles, previous owner took good care of it. Not too much power for a beginner, but enough that he won’t outgrow it in three months.”
We follow him through the shop to the service area. The bike sits in the corner – black with chrome accents, smaller than my Harley but solid-looking. Not flashy. Practical.
“What do you think?” I ask Joshua.
He circles the bike slowly, examining it from all angles like I taught him to do with cars. Checking for leaks, for signs of damage or neglect. Finally, he looks up.
“It’s perfect.”
Bernie names a price that’s fair. “I can have it tuned up and ready by next week, after the boy finishes his safety course.”
I nod, still not entirely convinced I’m doing the right thing, but committed now. “We’ll take it.”
As Bernie writes up the paperwork, Joshua stands beside the bike, not touching it yet, just looking. The expression on his face – a mixture of joy, anticipation, and respect – reminds me so much of myself at his age that it takes my breath away.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”
“Easiest way to make sure you ride safe is to teach you myself,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
What I don’t say is that Donna’s strange call pushed me over the edge. I don’t believe Mike is watching from anywhere, but I do believe in honoring his memory by living fully, by not letting fear dictate our choices.
—
The next two weeks pass in a blur of preparation. Joshua throws himself into the motorcycle safety course, coming home each night full of new knowledge, eager to share it with me. He uses his own savings to buy quality gear – no shortcuts. I find myself impressed by his thoroughness, his maturity.
When the day comes to pick up the bike, I insist on driving it home myself. “You can ride it after you’ve passed your motorcycle license test,” I tell him. He doesn’t argue.
That night, I lie awake again, listening to the house settle around me. Ellen’s breathing is deep and regular beside me. Down the hall, I know Joshua is probably still awake too, too excited to sleep.
I slip out of bed and make my way to the garage. The Honda sits next to my Harley, looking impossibly small and vulnerable. I run my hand over the seat, remembering my first bike, the pure exhilaration of that initial solo ride.
“I’m trying to do right by him, Mike,” I whisper to the empty garage. “But I’m scared as hell.”
No answer comes. Just the ticking of the water heater and the faint smell of the new leather from Joshua’s riding jacket hanging on the wall.
The next morning, Joshua is up before dawn, gear laid out neatly, ready for our first ride together once he passes his test. The testing center opens at 8 AM. We’re in the parking lot at 7:30.
“Nervous?” I ask.
He nods. “A little. Not about the test. About riding with you after.”
“Why’s that?”
He hesitates. “I don’t want to let you down. Don’t want to make you regret this.”
The vulnerability in his admission catches me off guard. How much pressure has he been feeling, knowing what this means to me, knowing my fears?
“Listen to me,” I say, turning in my seat to face him fully. “You could never let me down, not over this. Riding is something I love, something I want to share with you. But if you try it and don’t love it like I do, that’s okay too.”
“But Uncle Mike—”
“Would want you to live your life, not relive mine or his.” I’m surprised by my own certainty. “This isn’t about making up for what happened to him. It’s about you finding your own way.”
He nods, some tension leaving his shoulders. “I do want this, Dad. Not just because you love it. Because something about it calls to me too.”
“Then let’s go get you licensed so you can answer that call.”
Two hours later, Joshua emerges from the testing center with a grin that could power the whole city. He passed with a perfect score.
“Ready for your first real ride?” I ask.
“Been ready my whole life,” he replies.
—
We start simple. Quiet neighborhood streets, then country roads with little traffic. I ride lead, checking my mirrors constantly to see Joshua behind me. His form is good – head up, scanning the road ahead, maintaining proper lane position. All the things they teach in the safety course that most riders eventually get lazy about.
But what strikes me most is his face when we stop for a break at a country store. The pure joy there, undiluted by fear or trauma. It’s how I used to feel, before Mike died. How riding is supposed to feel.
“This is…” he struggles for words. “I can’t even describe it.”
“Freedom,” I supply. “That’s what we call it.”
He nods vigorously. “Exactly! You feel everything – the temperature changes as we pass through shaded areas, the smells from farms and fields. It’s like being part of the world instead of just passing through it.”
I smile, something unlocking in my chest. “That’s it exactly.”
We ride for another hour before heading home. As we pull into our driveway, Ellen comes out onto the porch, trying to hide her worry behind a smile.
“How’d it go?” she calls.
Joshua pulls off his helmet, his face flushed with excitement. “Mom, it was amazing! Dad’s a great teacher. You should see him signaling turns and hazards, checking to make sure I’m seeing everything!”
I remove my own helmet, catching Ellen’s eye. Something passes between us – understanding, relief.
“Sounds like you two had a good time,” she says. “Dinner’s almost ready. Go wash up.”
As Joshua bounds into the house, still talking about the ride, Ellen steps closer to me.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
I consider the question, surprised by my answer. “Yeah. I think I am.”
“He looked happy. So did you.”
I nod. “It felt right, riding with him. Like something clicking into place.”
She squeezes my arm. “Mike would be proud.”
Later that night, after dinner and an hour of Joshua recounting every moment of our ride, I find myself back in the garage. The two bikes side by side no longer look wrong together. They look like continuity, like legacy.
I run my hand over the worn leather of my Harley’s seat, thinking about all the miles we’ve traveled together, all the weight of memory it carries.
“I think I got this one right, Mike,” I say to the empty space beside my bike. “The kid’s a natural. Just like you said he’d be.”
For the first time in twelve years, I feel like maybe Mike can hear me. Not literally, but in the way that matters – in the continuation of what we loved, in passing it on to the next generation.
—
Over the next six months, Joshua and I ride together every chance we get. His skills improve rapidly, his confidence growing with each mile. I find myself relaxing, trusting his judgment, seeing in him the same instinctive awareness of the road that marks a born rider.
More surprising is what happens to me. With each ride, some of the old joy returns. The burden of Mike’s death doesn’t disappear, but it shifts, becomes less a weight and more a presence riding alongside us. I start suggesting new routes, longer rides. I find myself looking forward to our time on the road in a way I haven’t in years.
Ellen notices the change. “You’re different since you started riding with Joshua,” she tells me one night. “More like the man I married.”
“Is that good or bad?” I ask, only half joking.
“Good,” she says firmly. “Very good.”
The six-month mark arrives – the point where I promised to evaluate whether Joshua is ready for solo rides. We’re in the garage, performing routine maintenance on his Honda. He hasn’t brought up the deadline, hasn’t pressured me.
“So,” I say, tightening the last bolt on his oil filter. “Six months today.”
He nods, wiping his hands on a shop rag. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
“You haven’t mentioned it.”
He shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about it. About riding solo.”
“And?”
“And I’m ready. I know I am.” He meets my eyes. “But I also know why that deadline scared you. Why this whole thing scares you.”
I set down my wrench. “I’m less scared than I was.”
“I know that too. But Dad…” He hesitates. “I like riding with you. I’m not in a rush to go solo all the time. Maybe sometimes, sure. But the best part of all this has been doing it together.”
Something catches in my throat. “Yeah?”
He nods, suddenly looking younger than his years. “When I was little, I used to dream about riding next to you. Not because I was so excited about motorcycles, though I was. But because you always looked happiest on your bike, and I wanted to be part of that happiness.”
The simple truth of his words hits me harder than any philosophical discussion about risk and reward ever could. All this time, I’ve been thinking about Mike, about danger, about what I might lose. I never considered what we both might gain.
“You’ve earned the right to ride solo,” I tell him. “You’re a good rider, Joshua. Smart. Careful. But never so careful you forget to feel the joy of it.”
His face brightens. “Really? You think I’m ready?”
“I do.” I hold up a finger. “But there’s one more thing I want us to do together first.”
“What’s that?”
“A proper road trip. Two weeks, just you and me. I want to take you through the Rockies, show you some of the routes Mike and I rode.”
Including, though I don’t say it aloud, the road where Mike died. I need to go back there with my son, need to reclaim that space from tragedy, transform it from a site of death to a continuation of life.
Joshua’s eyes widen. “Seriously? Two weeks on the road?”
“If you want to. If your summer job can spare you.”
“Are you kidding? I’ll make it work!” His excitement is palpable. “When do we leave?”
“After your finals. Early June. We’ll head west, take our time, really see the country.”
He’s already planning, asking questions about routes and gear for long-distance riding. I answer each one, feeling a lightness I haven’t experienced in years.
That night, I dream of Mike for the first time in ages. Not of his death, but of the good days. The two of us riding side by side down endless highways, young and invincible. In the dream, he looks over at me and grins.
“Good call, brother,” he says. “The boy needs this. So do you.”
I wake with tears on my face but peace in my heart. Outside, the first light of dawn breaks over the rooftops. In a few hours, Joshua and I will go for our weekend ride, like we always do now.
But this time, I’ll let him lead the way.
