I always despised my father because he was a motorcycle mechanic—but now I ride his Triumph every Sunday.
Growing up, I wished my life had a bit more… polish. My best mate’s dad was a consultant in the City. Another girl’s mum was a barrister. Their homes smelled of freshly baked scones and polished wood. Their parents wore tailored suits, drove sleek German cars, and never had oil under their nails.
Then there was my father—Edward.
A grease-stained mechanic. Tattoos, rough hands, scuffed boots held together with duct tape. He’d thunder up to my school on his beat-up Triumph, beard whipping in the wind, his leather jacket speckled with grime like he’d just crawled out from under a lorry.
He humiliated me.
I remember hiding behind the school gates one afternoon in Year Nine when I spotted him waiting in the car park. My friend Charlotte waved. “Is that your dad?”
“No,” I snapped. “That’s just… Eddie. Works at the garage near ours.”
I never called him “Dad.” Not in public. Barely at home. “Eddie” kept him at arm’s length. Made it easier to pretend I wasn’t the daughter of a bloke who spent his days fixing engines instead of closing deals in glass towers.
He never said a word. Not once.
When I spun tales about my family for school assignments, he’d just grin. “Whatever makes you happy, love,” he’d murmur, a quiet ache in his eyes.
The last time I saw him alive was at my university graduation.
It should’ve been a proud day. He turned up in his least-faded jeans and a collared shirt I hadn’t seen since Christmas. He’d tamed his beard and even slicked back his hair. I spotted him hovering near the other parents, shifting awkwardly, clutching a bunch of daisies in his rough, grease-marked hands.
My mates’ parents wore Savile Row suits. Their cufflinks caught the light. They chatted with lecturers like old friends. And there was Edward—my reminder of everything I wanted to escape.
When the ceremony ended and the crowd surged forward, he opened his arms.
“So proud of you, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick.
I stepped back and offered a handshake. “Cheers, Eddie,” I mumbled.
His smile flickered. He stared at my hand like it was something foreign. But he shook it, nodded, and walked away without another word.
Three weeks later, I got the call.
Motorbike crash. Quick. No suffering, they said.
I didn’t cry. Not straight away. Told myself I didn’t need to. We weren’t close. He’d had his life. I had mine.
But the funeral… that was different.
I expected a handful of relatives. Maybe his old mate, Jack. Instead, the chapel was packed. Strangers filled the pews—bikers in vintage leathers, lads with red-rimmed eyes, elderly women clutching faded photos, young mums bouncing babies on their knees.
I stood at the front, numb, as person after person approached me.
A bloke with a military crop gripped my shoulder. “Your dad visited my lad every week after his accident. Never missed a Thursday. Brought him bacon rolls and bike mags.”
A silver-haired woman pulled me into a hug. “Eddie fixed my boiler when I couldn’t pay. Brought me soup when I had flu. Who does that these days?”
A teenager wiped his nose. “Taught me how to adjust chain tension. Got me my first job at the garage. Said I had promise, even when no one else did.”
And they kept coming.
“He organised food parcels after the factory shut down.”
“Kept our youth club open when the council cut funding.”
“Never bragged. Just rolled up his sleeves and got on with it.”
I stood there, gutted. They knew him better than I ever had.
That night, I went to his workshop. The lamp over the bench was still lit. His tools were lined up like treasures—every spanner gleaming, every nut in its rightful place. On the wall, between faded posters and schematics, hung a picture of me.
Five years old. Perched on his shoulders, giggling, a tiny helmet slipping over my eyes. Both of us grinning like nothing could ever hurt us.
I collapsed to the floor and wept.
On his bench, I found an envelope. My name scrawled in his jagged handwriting.
*”My love,
If you’re reading this, I suppose I’m gone. Hope I got to tell you how proud I am—how much I loved you. Always. I knew I embarrassed you. Saw it. Felt it. Never held it against you. You were chasing something grander. I wanted that for you.
But fixing bikes was never just about engines. It was about keeping people moving. You were always my reason to keep moving.
Don’t let regrets slow you down. Just live well.
Ride if you fancy it. The Triumph’s yours now.
Love,
Dad.”*
That letter broke me.
I spent weeks clearing his workshop. Not because I had to—but because I needed to feel close to him. Learned how to check the clutch. How to replace a gasket. Played the old rock albums he used to whistle along to. Then, one Sunday morning, I took the Triumph out.
It scared me senseless at first—the growl of the engine, the sting of the wind, the world whipping past.
But then I heard him.
*”Steady, love. Lean into the turn.”*
And I did.
Now, I ride every Sunday. Down winding B-roads, past terraced houses, over the same bridge he crossed every dawn. I stop at the café where he always left an extra fiver “for the next bloke.” I keep his photo in my jacket, right over my heart.
And when anyone asks about the bike, I grin and say, *”IT WAS MY DAD’S.”*
Because I’m not ashamed of him anymore. I carry his legacy with every mile.
He wasn’t a barrister. Wasn’t a CEO.
HE WAS A MECHANIC. A FIXER. A QUIET HERO.
And the best father I never knew I had—until it was nearly too late.
