I ignored seventeen missed calls from my dad, convincing myself I had good reasons. We hadn’t spoken in a year. Our last conversation ended in anger after he refused to give me money I thought I needed more than he needed his motorcycle. I decided he didn’t understand me, that my world of plans and polished perfection could never align with his leather jackets and love for the open road.
Then came the call from a stranger: my dad had been found on Highway 49, gone, his motorcycle beside him.
When I went to his house, I discovered a letter tucked inside his riding jacket. He already knew his time was running out. And all he wanted was one last ride with me—to the lake where he’d taught me to fish as a little girl. His words shattered every wall of anger I had built.
At his funeral, I saw the truth I had ignored. Dozens of bikers showed up—men and women whose lives he had quietly touched, people he had helped when no one else would. In his garage, I found photo albums filled with my childhood, drawings I had made as a kid carefully saved, and even a jacket he’d once set aside for me, embroidered with my name.
So I learned. To ride. To listen. To forgive.
Now, every Sunday, I take the road he loved, wearing his patch across my back: Jack’s Daughter.
For years, I thought my father rode to escape me.
Now I understand—he rode because of me.
And today, I ride for him.