What Dad’s Really Want for Father’s Day
My Dad wasn’t one for material possessions. He wasn’t impressed by flashy cars, custom suits, or expensive watches. And he despised wearing a tie. He’d wear one to funerals and weddings out of respect but would remove it the moment the service was over.
He was a frustrating person to buy gifts for. Whenever we asked what he wanted for his birthday, Christmas, or Father’s Day, he’d predictably say, “Peace on earth and a healthy family.” We’d groan and roll our eyes, lamenting that those weren’t things he could unwrap. It never changed his position.
He loved his Chevy Suburban, but more for its utility than any status it might imply. When I was reviewing something special like a Ferrari Roma or a Lamborghini Huracan STO, I’d bring it by to get his reaction. An indifferent shrug and a stern, often expletive-ridden, directive to not collect any more speeding tickets was routinely his response.
The first time I reviewed a motorcycle was a different story altogether. He’d ridden friends’ bikes as a young man back before you needed a helmet, or even a specific designation on your driver’s licence. He stopped when he settled down to raise a family and forbade me from ever riding one.
When I turned 25, I defied his wishes and came home with a motorcycle. To say he wasn’t pleased would be a grand understatement. He slowly softened to the idea as he witnessed that I was starting on an old, heavy cruiser rather than a supersport, was wearing full protective equipment, and taking training courses to do it the safest way possible.
He surprised me one afternoon by swinging his leg over a Harley-Davidson Fat Bob press bike I’d brought home, asking what steps he would have to take to get licensed. He wrote the tests, took the courses, and sure enough got his motorcycle licence that summer. Approaching retirement, he wasn’t all that interested in golf and was too young for shuffleboard. As a former pilot, motorcycles were more his speed. As the years passed and he gained experience, he’d pick up the odd press bike for me, occasionally disappearing on a sunny afternoon, always returning with a giant smile on his face.
After he retired, we started an annual tradition where we would pick an aviation museum and plan a road trip. We traveled to the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Musuem in Washington, D.C., the Udvar-Hazy Center in Chantilly, VA, and the National U.S. Air Force Museum in Dayton, OH — to name just a few. We also attended the odd bike rally and rode to Port Dover, ON for Friday the 13th—me on a Softail Springer CVO and him on a Road Glide.
His cancer diagnosis and the pandemic followed not long after. Social distancing, along with surgeries, aggressive treatments, and extensive clinical trials became the focus. After a stoic, courageous battle, he succumbed to the disease the week of his 76th birthday. Seemingly slowly at first, and then at a shockingly swift pace.
While he still had the energy and wherewithal to speak, he didn’t talk about the bread maker, the miter saw, or the leather gloves he received. His deathbed reflections expressed gratitude and appreciation for the trips we took together.
The memorable meals, the sketchy hotels, and the quirky people we met along the way became the source of our own inside jokes. Talking late into the night while sipping on bourbon, we shared reckless stories of our youth and connected as friends and contemporaries rather than just father and son. The memories from those rides and late-night chats are more meaningful gifts than you could ever buy in a store.
Life is full of obstacles and distractions. There will always be more work to do and projects to finish. We didn’t have the time then either; we made the time. But there’s never enough. Those happy memories bring comfort in times of grief and pain as we continue to mourn his loss every day. Father’s Day is particularly difficult.
So, instead of spending money to buy your dad something he doesn’t want or need, why not suggest a ride instead. When the trip is over, raise a glass to good health. One day you’ll be grateful you did.
Marketplace Inventory
Dustin Woods
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