My Father’s Son by Rob Brooks

My Father’s Son
Motorcycles are in my blood, in my DNA. I’ve seen them under a microscope, floating in my blood stream, riding the highways and byways of my veins and arteries. Microscopic sport bikes, cruisers, old classics, inherited from my father, racing through my circulatory system, dodging in and out of the red cell traffic, avoiding the white cell cops.
I was “born to ride.”
Okay, so “in my blood” may be a bit of a stretch, but I came from a motorcycle riding family, and riding is one of my great passions, my favorite pastime. My father was a rider back in his youth, a “greaser” in the late 50s, riding a stripped-down ’54 Triumph Tiger with my mom hanging on for dear life. The original “Fonz.” The bike had chopped fenders, a chrome frame, removable baffles, and a pink peanut tank, he told me. He sold the bike before joining the Air Force, and no photos remain of it. Pity. Dad even rode while stationed on the island of Okinawa in the early 60s, hopping up Cushmans and running aviation fuel in them, blasting along rough roads between the base and local villages and towns.
As kids, my brothers and I saw various bikes come and go in Dad’s workshop—a ’72 Triumph Trophy TR6, a ‘68 Bonneville, and enough extra parts hanging from pegs on the walls to practically build another. We rode mini-bikes, then dirt bikes, cutting miles of trails through the woods behind our north Georgia home. I even got to ride the old Trophy up and down the street when I was old enough, under Dad’s watchful and Mom’s worried eyes. Hunting, fishing, camping, motorcycle riding—it was the ideal boyhood.
Once I got my driver’s license, Dad helped me buy my first car, and I left behind two wheels for four. Girls, cruising, graduation, college, grad school, marriage, children—motorcycling became a faded memory, fond recollections from a storied childhood. The dirt bikes eventually collected dust and rust in the corner of Dad’s garage, and he eventually sold his old Triumphs and all the parts with them. Dad’s garage spent years filled with cars and trucks, as he serviced and maintained the vehicles of Mom and us three sons.
Years rolled by, into decades. Eventually the itch to ride returned, demanding to be scratched. I started riding again in 1996, and soon I coaxed Dad into “throwing a leg over” as well. He eventually picked up a Harley Super Glide, re-upped his moto license and started honing his riding skills again. Mom even geared up and started riding along with him, just like in their days of youth. For the first time in my life, my father had also become my “road brother.” We went on to ride many miles and several road trips together, which I’ve chronicled in photos, journals, and the annals of my memory.
Our first road trip together took in the Tail of the Dragon, the Cherohala Skyway, and the southern section of the Blue Ridge Parkway across a week. Being on two wheels, riding alongside Dad, taking in some of the most beautiful roads in North America was an experience I will always cherish. We have since taken that trip two more times together, even bringing Mom along on one, switching between riding with me and with Dad.
We took a trip across northeastern Alabama and southern Tennessee, visiting the famed Barber Vintage Motorsports Museum, riding the Talladega Scenic Drive and the Lookout Mountain Parkway, and taking in a “falls” tour of DeSoto and Little River Falls. Mom rode with us on that one too, snapping photos from her perch on the back of Dad’s Harley, by this time an ’03 Heritage Softail Classic.
We’ve ridden the mountain roads above my north Georgia home many times, as well as the rolling hills of dairy country toward the center of the state, where they live. I have relished the miles, the hours, and the memories made with my father, sharing this common bond of a love for motorcycling. Dad still rides, though not as often or as far anymore. His sight and hearing are not what they used to be, his strength is waning some, and his reflexes are losing a little of their sharpness. But throwing a leg over his big Hawg, Dad can still ride circles around many I’ve seen out on the roads today.
My only regret is that I was not more interested in learning the mechanics of working on bikes as a younger man, as I could have learned much, and enjoyed even more time with Dad in those early years. My father has been a master mechanic his entire life, able to tear down, repair, and rebuild nearly any type of petrol-powered motor imaginable. I arrived at the motorcycle mechanic table rather late in life, only in recent years acquiring some (limited) skills with the help and encouragement of Pops. He has aided me on several projects, rebuilding and repairing multiple old motorcycles I’ve acquired and sold. We don’t get to ride together as often, like we enjoyed for about a decade, but I savor the times we now share wrenching on bikes, in his garage and mine.
So I guess I’ve come full circle. Turns out, I truly am “my father’s son.”

Rob Brooks