At the burial, I placed that bracelet in Dad’s hand before they closed the casket. Twelve bikes we’d ridden together. One angel for all the rides ahead.
But I kept something else. Dad’s old Harley—the one I’d learned on—was left to me in his will. Uncle Bear and I rebuilt it over the next six months, making it road-worthy again. I painted “Hawk’s Legacy” on the tank in silver lettering.
And yes, I’m still riding. The doctors say it’s fine until the third trimester. Every Sunday, I take Dad’s Harley out, and I ride the same routes we used to take together. Sometimes Uncle Bear rides with me. Sometimes it’s just me and the road and the memory of my father’s laughter.
People ask me all the time how I can ride after losing Dad. They say it must remind me of him in a painful way. They don’t understand that it does remind me of him, but in the most beautiful way possible.
Every time I twist that throttle, I feel his hands over mine, teaching me. Every time I lean into a curve, I hear his voice telling me to trust the bike. Every time I stop at that rest stop where Danny proposed, I remember Dad crying with joy.Continue reading…
