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My father’s Road King
I remember those long Sunday trips with my dad and his motorcycle. I woke up every Sunday to the sound of its motor roaring. He loved his bike and so did I. We used to gather up with his biker fellows, and then hit the road. It’s funny how I used to see them as real rebels, but in reality they were just a bunch of dads who wanted to get out of their houses and feel young and wild again. I guess that’s why my father loved so much his bike, because it made him feel free and out of the routine. It made him feel the highway belonged to him and that there was no power on earth that could stop him. The sun shining right above us and the gusts of wind breaking in our faces is what I most remember from those days. Most of the trips were so long that I almost fell asleep, which annoyed my dad because I would stagger from side to side. I remember he once tied me with a rope to his chest so that I wouldn’t fall in case I fell asleep. Most of the times we would head up to a morning tacos restaurant in Santiago Nuevo Leon. The tacos were not that good, but it somehow was a common destiny for bikers (Sunday bikers). I remember how he carefully cleaned it every week without missing a spot, and he would then slowly wax it. He treated it as if it was his daughter. Sadly, it only lasted in his possession for about a year, since my brother’s Jeep got stolen and he needed money for a new one so that he could have a way of moving from his apartment to Tec. My father’s heart was aching but he sold his precious bike. It was a sad day not just for him, but for me too. I knew those Sunday trips were over. Many years have passed and the thought of buying a new bike hasn’t been through my father’s head, not even once, or at least that is what I think, since every time I try to talk about it he says those days are over. Even when he says he doesn’t, I know he misses those days, the days when getting his motor running and heading out on the highway made him feel he was born to be wild.
