I always hated my father because he was a motorcycle mechanic, not a doctor or lawyer like my friends’ parents
I used to be ashamed of my father, Frank — a motorbike mechanic, not a doctor or lawyer like my friends’ parents. I wouldn’t even call him “Dad” at my graduation, just gave a stiff handshake.
I inherited his Harley and his dream. We opened a free workshop for at-risk teens, fixing engines — and lives.
On his 59th birthday, I tied on his bandana and led the ride he once led. I finally realized: Respect isn’t stitched into fancy suits. It’s built from open hands and open roads.
Call home while you can. Embrace those you don’t understand. You might find the hero you needed all along.