I ALWAYS HATED MY FATHER BECAUSE HE WAS A MOTORBIKE MECHANIC—BUT NOW I RIDE HIS TRIUMPH EVERY SUNDAY
Growing up, I longed for a life that felt more… refined. My best mate’s father was a consultant surgeon. Another girl’s mum was a barrister in Westminster. Their homes smelled of lavender polish and fresh linen. Their parents wore tailored suits, drove sleek German cars, and never had a speck of oil on their fingers.
Then there was my father—Graham.
A motorbike mechanic. Leather-clad, hands permanently streaked with grease, scuffed Doc Martens worn thin at the soles. He’d rumble up to my school on his old Triumph, his unkempt beard tangled in the wind, his jacket smeared with muck like he’d just crawled from beneath a lorry.
He made me cringe.
I remember shrinking behind the brick arches of the schoolyard one afternoon in Year 9 when I spotted him waiting for me. My friend Poppy nudged me. “Is that your dad?”
“No,” I said, too sharply. “That’s just… Graham. He works at the garage near ours.”
I never called him “Dad.” Not in front of anyone. Barely even at home. “Graham” kept him at arm’s length. Made it easier to pretend I wasn’t the daughter of a man who tinkered with carburetors instead of closing deals in a high-rise.
He never said a word about it.
When I fabricated tales about my family for school assignments, he’d just grin. “Whatever makes you happy, love,” he’d murmur, though his eyes always dimmed just a little.
The last time I saw him alive was my university graduation.
It should have been a moment of pride. He arrived in his least-faded jeans and a collared shirt I hadn’t seen since my cousin’s wedding. He’d even neatened his beard and slicked back his hair. I spotted him hovering near the other parents, stiff and out of place, clutching a bunch of daisies in his rough, scarred hands.
My friends’ families were draped in designer suits, their cufflinks catching the light as they chatted with lecturers. And then there was Graham—my walking reminder of everything I wanted to escape.
When the ceremony ended and the crowd surged forward, he moved toward me, arms open.
“So proud of you, sweetheart,” he said, his voice cracking.
I stepped back and offered a stiff handshake. “Cheers, Graham,” I mumbled.
His smile wavered. Just for a heartbeat. He stared at my outstretched hand as if it belonged to a stranger. But he shook it, gave a tight nod, and said nothing more.
Three weeks later, the call came.
Bike accident. Instant. No suffering, they assured me.
I didn’t weep. Not at first. I told myself I had no right. We weren’t close. He’d lived his life. I was building mine.
But the funeral… that was another matter.
I expected a handful of relatives. Maybe his old mate, Dave. Instead, the chapel was packed. Strangers crammed into every pew—bikers in weathered jackets, lads with red-rimmed eyes, elderly ladies clutching yellowed photographs, young mothers bouncing restless babies.
I stood near the front, numb, as person after person approached me.
A bloke with a soldier’s posture gripped my shoulder. “Your dad came by every Wednesday after my lad lost his leg. Never empty-handed—always brought biscuits and copies of *Bike Magazine*.”
A silver-haired woman pulled me into a hug. “Graham fixed my boiler in the dead of winter when I couldn’t pay. Brought me shepherd’s pie when I had the flu. When’s the last time you met someone like that?”
A lanky teen wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Taught me how to replace a clutch. Got me an apprenticeship. Said I had promise, even when my own dad reckoned I was useless.”
And still they came.
“He organised a food drive when the factory closed.”
“Kept the youth club’s minibus running for years.”
“Never bragged. Just got on with it.”
I stood there, hollow with shame. They knew him better than his own daughter.
That night, I went back to his workshop. The anglepoise lamp over the bench was still lit. His tools were arranged with an almost reverent care—every spanner gleaming, every nut slotted into its rightful place. On the wall, wedged between peeling racing posters, was a photo of me.
Six years old. Balanced on his shoulders, giggling, a too-big helmet sliding over my nose. Both of us beaming like nothing in the world could hurt us.
I crumpled to the floor, tears streaming.
On his workbench, I found an envelope. My name scrawled in his crooked script.
*My love,
If you’re reading this, I suppose I’ve clocked off for good. Hope I got to say how chuffed I am with you, how much I adored you—always. I knew I embarrassed you. Saw it. Felt it. Never blamed you. You were reaching for something brighter. I wanted that for you.
But fixing bikes was never just about engines. It was about keeping people moving. You were always the reason I kept moving.
Don’t let guilt chain you down. Just live well.
Ride if you fancy it. The Triumph’s yours now.
Love,
Dad.*
That letter shattered something inside me.
I spent weeks clearing out his workshop. Not out of obligation—but because I needed to touch what he’d touched. I learned to top up the coolant. How to gap the plugs. I spun his scratched Rolling Stones records, the ones he’d whistle along to while he worked. And then, one Sunday dawn, I kicked his Triumph to life.
It scared me senseless at first—the howl of the engine, the bite of the wind, the way the hedgerows melted into streaks of green.
But then I heard him, clear as day.
*“Easy, love. Trust the bend.”*
And I did.
Now, I ride every Sunday. Down winding B-roads, past sleepy villages, over the same humpback bridge he crossed every dawn. I stop at the greasy spoon where he always left a fiver “for the next bloke’s brew.” I keep his photo tucked in my breast pocket, right where it aches.
And when someone asks about the bike, I lift my chin and say, “IT WAS MY DAD’S.”
Because I’m no longer ashamed of who he was. I carry him with me, mile after mile.
He wasn’t a barrister. Wasn’t a consultant.
HE WAS A MECHANIC. A FIXER. A SILENT SAINT.
And the best father I never knew I had—until it was nearly too late.
