I always resented my father because he was a motorcycle mechanic—yet now I ride his Triumph every Sunday.
As a girl, I longed for a life that seemed more refined. My dearest friend’s father was a barrister. Another’s mother ran a grand London gallery. Their homes smelled of lavender polish and fresh parchment. Their parents wore tailored coats, drove sleek autos, and never a speck of oil beneath their fingernails.
Then there was my father—Arthur.
A grease-stained mechanic. Tattooed arms, hands perpetually blackened, boots worn thin at the soles. He’d thunder up to my school on his battered old Triumph, his beard whipping in the wind, leather jacket streaked with grime, as if he’d just crawled from beneath a lorry.
He mortified me.
I recall hiding behind the school gates one autumn afternoon when I spotted him waiting for me in the yard. My friend Imogen glanced over. “Is that your father?”
“No,” I lied, too swiftly. “That’s just… Arthur. He works at the garage near our house.”
I rarely called him “Dad”—not in public, scarcely even at home. “Arthur” kept him at arm’s length. Made it simpler to pretend I wasn’t the daughter of a man who mended engines rather than presiding in courtrooms.
He never once protested.
When I fabricated tales about my family for school essays, he’d only smile. “Whatever makes you happy, love,” he’d murmur, though his eyes held a quiet sorrow.
The last time I saw him alive was at my university graduation.
It ought to have been a proud day. He arrived in his best trousers and a navy shirt I hadn’t seen in ages. He’d even trimmed his beard and smoothed his wild hair. I spotted him lingering near the other parents, ill at ease, clutching a bunch of bluebells in his rough, work-worn hands.
My friends’ families wore fine suits, their cufflinks gleaming. They exchanged pleasantries with the professors. And then there was Arthur—a reminder of everything I wished to escape.
When the ceremony ended and the crowd swelled, he stepped forward, arms open.
“I’m so proud of you, my girl,” he said, voice thick.
I stiffened and offered a handshake instead. “Thank you, Arthur,” I muttered.
For just a moment, his smile dimmed. He stared at my hand as though it belonged to a stranger. But he took it, nodded, and said no more.
Three weeks later, the call came.
A crash. Quick. No suffering, they assured me.
I didn’t weep—not at first. I told myself I needn’t. We weren’t close. He’d lived his life. I was moving onward.
But the funeral undid me.
I expected a handful of relatives, perhaps old Bert from the garage. Instead, the chapel was overflowing. Strangers packed the pews—riders in patched waistcoats, lads with tear-stained faces, elderly ladies clutching yellowed photographs, young mothers with babes in arms.
I stood near the front, dazed, as they approached me one by one.
A burly man with a soldier’s bearing clasped my hand. “Your dad visited my boy every week after his accident. Never missed a Thursday. Brought him tea and racing papers.”
A silver-haired woman embraced me tightly. “Arthur fixed my boiler when I couldn’t pay. Brought me broth when I was poorly. Who does that nowadays?”
A lad no older than sixteen wiped his eyes. “He taught me how to adjust a carburettor. Helped me land my first job. Said I mattered, even when no one else did.”
And still, they came.
“He bought milk and bread for the whole street after the storm.”
“He kept the youth club open when the council shut it down.”
“Never spoke of himself. Just turned up, helped, and left.”
I stood there, stricken. They knew him better than I ever had.
That night, I returned to his workshop. The bulb above the bench still burned. His tools were laid out with care—each spanner wiped clean, every nut tucked in its proper place. On the wall, among faded posters and diagrams, hung a photo of me.
Six years old, atop his shoulders, laughing, a straw hat slipping over my eyes. We grinned as if the world could never harm us.
I crumpled to the floor, weeping.
On his bench lay an envelope. My name was scrawled across it in his uneven hand.
*My darling girl,
If you’re reading this, I suppose I’ve gone. I hope I told you how proud I am—how fiercely I’ve always loved you. I knew I shamed you. Saw it. Felt it. Never blamed you for it. You were reaching for something grander. I wanted that for you.
Still, I hope one day you’ll see that mending bikes was never just about engines. It was about helping folks find their way. You were always my way forward.
Don’t let regret slow you. Just live well.
Ride if you fancy it. The Triumph’s yours now.
Love,
Dad.*
That letter shattered me.
In the weeks that followed, I tidied his workshop—not from obligation, but to feel near him. I learned to check the oil, to clean the plugs. I played the old rock ‘n’ roll records he’d hum along to as he worked. Then, one Sunday dawn, I took his Triumph out.
It frightened me at first—the engine’s growl, the sting of the wind, the world rushing past.
But then I heard him in my mind.
*Steady now, love. Lean into the bend.*
And I did.
Now, I ride every Sunday. Down winding lanes, through sleepy villages, across the same bridge he crossed each morning. I pause at the café where he always left an extra few quid “for the next bloke.” I keep his photo tucked inside my coat, close to my heart.
And when folk ask about the bike, I smile and say, “IT WAS MY FATHER’S.”
Because I’m no longer ashamed of who he was. Instead, I carry his legacy with every mile.
He wasn’t a barrister. He wasn’t a lord.
HE WAS A MECHANIC. A FIXER. A QUIET SAINT.
And the finest father I never knew I had—until he was gone.
