Dad, Motorcycles, and Me; a complicated relationship

 My father hated me riding motorcycles on the road. Which is odd because he was the first person to sit me on one. 

And Dad was a rider.

When I got a little 250 to learn on in 1985, his opinion was that I woud kill myself within months. It turned out I did not, however I did give up road riding after a year following a disasterous trip out west where another person in the group convinced me I was not up to riding on the road. I believed him, and gave up, turning back to off road riding a few years later, competing in trials. Dad was most pleased with this turn of events. Then when I finally got my bike license after a year on a 250 in 1995, he wanted to come along when I did the test ride. He passed his opinion, I bought the bike, and rode it home in the rain. His verdict was the same - "you'll kill yourself". 

Dad was born in 1932 and it seems from a pretty early age he had an affinity for internal combustion engines, so he rode bikes and as was the custom of the day, worked on his own bikes that were mainly Nortons, including a pre-war Norton International 500 - a very hot machine for that time. His brother had hot rods, and Dad worked on them with Maurice, but he was a bike guy. He rode in a crew around mid 50s Sydney and the surrounding areas. One of them became world 250 champion in 1969. Some of them died. Many were injured.  They were rockers...and this happened. They went to Bathurst every year, and had a fine old time watching the racing. I get the impression they had a few drinks, but it was about the bikes, about the racing.

Then he got married and gave up riding. Just like that.

He put me on that bike in 1972 or 1973, as best I can remember, at a freinds place. I remember I didn't like it. 

Then he bought a Honda 90 with balloon tyres to ride the 1.5 miles to work at the concrete yard (he drove the trucks) and so enjoyed it before I knew it he had aYamaha  CT2 175, then he put me on a Honda Monkey Bike and although I crashed into a tree straight away I caught the bug. Before long I had a 100cc Ag bike, and a KV75 minibike, and we were going up to Bulls Hill Quarry, where I was taught to ride by Dads friend Neville. Dad had no patience to teach anybody anything - if they didn't get it instantly, he could lose his temper. Nev was a careful patient teacher, and as far as I can remember probably taught 10 kids to ride that I know of. As I was taught to ride on Nevilles YZ125, the Ag bike and the KV75 were easy. 

The years from 1976 to 1984 were great times for Dad on a bike, always off road. I had hardly ever saw him happier than when he was ragging his old CT2 around the track at Mooney Creek, or miles up a fire trail in the middle of nowhere. These were great times for me too, doing stuff with him, having fun, getting filthy and learning about bikes. 

It all came to an end when I went to uni in 1985. The KV75 was given away, the Ag 100 died, and the CT2 was leant to a freind who promptly siezed it by not filling the oil tank. End of an era, and I am sure we became more distant after that. Dad never rode again.  Dad never "got" surfing - he thought I was wasting my time spending nearly every day I could at the beach. For me it was life.

So it came to 1986 and my permanent return to road riding. I bought an SRX600, and 2 weeks later took it on a 2500km tour around NSW and Victoria - and I came back a changed person. More self-confident, more up for things, and 100% addicted to motorcycle riding. And its been that way ever since. I'd ride back to Mum and Dads on the SRX from Orange to Gosford and arrive home feeling great, to be greeted by grumbles from the old man about how dangerous the roads were......

Dad was against it all of course, almost but not quite until the day he died I'd like to think. See, almost the last time I saw him alive I drove him out on a madcap trip to Mudgee to visit a relative, who wasn't there - typical Dad! By this time Dad was blind. And on that trip, for the first time in more than 15 years he started to talk about the old days racing around Sydney on his Norton, the wild incidents, and he seemed to have an admiration for the riding I had done. We laughed and joked in a way we hadn't ever before really. These were special moments. Good thing he was blind, as I had tears in my eyes making it harder to drive, just as I have now typing these words. Just before he died, we made the connection. I'm really glad of that. 

Dad wasn't the best Dad a kid could have had; he was old fashioned and distant a lot of the time, didn't know how to deal with kids (or women for that matter) and was terrible at cooking a steak. 

But he was my Dad and he rode bikes.