Dads, Daughters and Motorcles
“Dad, remember that guy that I’ve been hanging out with? Well, he just bought a motorcycle.” This, the teenage daughter pronounced as if it were the same as picking up the daily newspaper.
Outwardly, Dad did not change expression or move. Inwardly, he froze at the kitchen table, the August 2004 issue of his favourite motorcycle magazine suddenly clenched in his hands. The mother-of-all-ironies had just been neatly dumped in his lap and a small bead of sweat formed on his brow.
His daughter on the back of a teenager-ridden bike!?!?
He could not budge. He could not read. In panic, he recalled the passage from Frank Herbert’s DUNE.
"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear…”
In the old days, Dad used to squire teenage girls around on a succession of clap-trap machines including a wobbly and tiny Honda 50, a couple of smashed Honda 90’s with knobby tires and high-pipes, a beat-up, bungee-chorded Superhawk that required push-starting, and a truly horrid, gas-leaking, farting Norton Commando.
But that was different.