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 a bit more… refined. My best mate’s dad was a consultant. Another girl’s mum worked in finance. Their homes smelled of lavender and fresh linen. Their parents wore sharp suits, drove sleek cars, and never had oil stains on their cuffs.
Then there was my father—Geoff.
A motorbike mechanic. Covered in tattoos, his hands permanently marked with grease, his worn-out boots scuffed at the toes. He’d rumble up to my school on his old Triumph, his beard tangled in the wind, his leather jacket dusty, like he’d just crawled out from under some clapped-out engine.
He embarrassed me.
I recall hiding behind the school gates once in Year 9 when I spotted him waiting for me in the car park. My friend Emily waved. “Is that your dad?”
“No,” I snapped. “That’s just Geoff. Works at the garage down the road.”
I never called him “Dad” in public. Not even at home. “Geoff” kept him at arm’s length. Made it easier to pretend I wasn’t the daughter of a bloke who tinkered with engines instead of closing deals in glass offices.
He never said a word about it. Not once.
When I spun tales about my family for school assignments, he’d just grin. “Whatever makes you happy, love,” he’d murmur, but his eyes held something unspoken.
I still remember the last time I saw him alive. My university graduation.
It should’ve been a proud day. He turned up wearing his least-faded jeans and a proper shirt I hadn’t seen since Christmas. He’d even tidied his beard. I spotted him hovering near the other parents, out of place, clutching a bunch of daisies in his rough, work-worn hands.
My friends’ families were dressed in designer labels. Their cufflinks glittered. They chatted politely with the dean. And then there was Geoff—my constant reminder of the life I wanted to escape.
When the ceremony ended and the crowd spilled out, he moved toward me, arms open.
“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick.
I edged back and held out my hand. “Cheers, Geoff,” I mumbled.
His smile flickered. He stared at my hand like it wasn’t mine. But he shook it, nodded, and walked away without another word.
Three weeks later, I got the call.
Motorbike crash. Instant. No pain, they said.
I didn’t cry. Not straight away. I told myself I didn’t need to. We weren’t close. He’d had his life. I was moving on.
But the funeral… that was something else.
I expected a handful of relatives. Maybe his old mate Terry from the shop. Instead, the church was packed. Strangers filled the pews—riders in weathered jackets, lads with red-rimmed eyes, elderly ladies clutching faded photos, young mums with kids on their laps.
I stood at the front, numb, as person after person came up to me.
A bloke with a soldier’s haircut gripped my shoulder. “Your dad would come round to check on my lad after his op. Every Thursday. Brought him biscuits and petrolhead magazines.”
An older woman hugged me tight. “Geoff fixed my boiler when I was skint. Brought me soup when I was poorly. Who does that these days?”
A teenager wiped his nose. “He taught me how to fit tyres. Helped me land my first job. Said I had promise, even when no one else did.”
And on they came.
“He sorted groceries for the whole street after the storm.”
“Kept the youth club open when the council wanted to shut it.”
“Never made a fuss. Just got on with it.”
I stood there, gutted. They knew him better than I ever had.
That night, I went back to his garage. The workbench light was still on. His tools were arranged with care—each spanner wiped clean, every nut stashed in its little tray. On the wall, tucked between old posters, was a photo of me.
Five years old. Perched on his shoulders, laughing, a too-big helmet sliding over my eyes. Both of us grinning like nothing else mattered.
I crumpled to the floor, weeping.
On his bench, I found an envelope. My name scrawled on the front in his messy handwriting.
“Love,
If you’re reading this, I reckon I’m gone. Hope I got to tell you how chuffed I am with you, how much I love you—always have. I know I made you cringe. Saw it. Felt it. Never blamed you. You were after something grander. I wanted that for you.
But maybe one day you’ll see fixing bikes wasn’t just about grease and bolts. It was about keeping folks moving. You were always what kept me moving.
Don’t let guilt slow you down. Just live well.
Take the Triumph out, if you fancy. It’s yours now.
Dad.”
That letter shattered me.
I spent weeks clearing out his garage. Not because I had to—but because I needed to feel near him. I learned how to top up the oil. How to check the chain. I played the old rock albums he’d whistle along to while working. Then, one Sunday morning, I took his Triumph for a ride.
It scared me witless at first—the growl of the engine, the wind battering my face, the world whipping past.
But then I heard him in my head.
“Steady, love. Lean into it.”
And I did.
Now, I ride every Sunday. Down country lanes, through sleepy villages, over the same bridge he crossed every dawn. I stop at the café where he’d always leave spare change “for the next bloke.” I keep a snap of him in my jacket, right over my heart.
And when folks ask 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 banker. Wasn’t a lawyer.
HE WAS A MECHANIC. A HELPER. A QUIET HERO.
And the best father I never knew I had—until it was nearly too late.
