My bicycle.
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I have owned a 1987 FXR for thirty years. I personally rebuilt that motor twice. Sitting on the tank and pointing at the gages taught Casey how to count. That bike was the one thing that stuck with me through Lynn’s departure, my sobriety, and the death of my own father.
In my club, every man was familiar with the machine. I told Hoss that I would be buried on it when he offered to buy it from me twice over the years.
One afternoon, the nurses assumed I was asleep. I contacted a Louisville collector who had been eyeing that bike for ten years. gave him the number. He didn’t even try to haggle. On a Thursday while Casey was in class, Ray’s nephew—a young person I trusted—rolled it out of my garage. I lay in that bed and mentally listened to a motor two hundred miles away.
The money arrived in an envelope. I kept it a secret and tucked it under my mattress.
When I said, “Baby, stop,” I was clutching that.
Return to the parking lot now.
I had no knowledge of the graduation. Ray said it all. Later, I learned that Ray had called Casey’s school following our Tuesday conversation. Went through four different offices. continued to call. The dean of the nursing program was on the line on the ninth call, and Ray, who is sixty-eight years old, six feet five, and has the phone manners of a wrecking ball, seemed to cry and say:
“Ma’am, her father is dying. He has weeks ahead of him. Does your rulebook contain anything that prohibits a man from witnessing his child graduate a little early?
It turned out that two days prior to the dean’s college graduation, her own father passed away.
Before Ray could finish asking, she responded in the affirmative. Casey’s clinical hours were over. All of her coursework was completed, with the exception of exams. A “pinning ceremony held off-campus” was approved by the institution. made it legitimate enough.
The rest was handled by the club. Some of the sixty bikes were from chapters that were three hours away. Hoss’s church provided a podium. VFW folding chairs. The wives of one of the younger guys spent two nites stitching Casey’s name onto the neck of a dress they purchased.
Ray knows me, therefore no one told me. I would have disagreed. Don’t make a fuss, I would have advised.
Rather, they simply hauled my entire bed out into the sun.
Each of my brothers removed his hat or his rag as Casey moved down the aisle between the bikes. Real tears are shed by men with tear tattoos. Men I’d bled with, watching over my child as if she were a banner.
Her name was read by the dean. Prewitt, Casey Lynn. “Candidate for the degree of Bachelor of Science in Nursing” was stated. She was referred to as “the one you want in the room when it goes wrong” by her clinical professors.
My daughter is that.
I raised the envelope when Casey grabbed for the diploma cover that the dean had put out.
“Stop, baby. You must see this before you take that.
The parking lot fell silent. Just one bike that someone neglected to turn off and the wind.
Casey approached my bed. took the envelope. I opened it.
I watched her count it with her thumb as I had instructed her, and I saw the change in her expression when she realized what she was holding. She then turned to face my garage in her mind, the way you look at a room in a house that isn’t there in front of you, and she muttered:
“Dad. The bike is where?
“Exactly where it should be,” I remarked. “Paying for the life of my child.”
“No.” Tears were streaming down her face as she shook her head silently. “No, no, you cherished that—”
I declared, “I love one thing.” It is clutching my money and has a cap on its head. I just came here on the bike.
She wept like a nine-year-old as she rested her head on my chest, being mindful of the lines and the port—the only way a nurse can lay on a dying man without endangering him. And I was able to do what I always did after a difficult year.
On the day of my daughter’s graduation, I had the opportunity to hold her.
God bless the dean, she waited it out. She then completed the actual ceremony. Casey received her pin. A woman dressed in academic robes pinned a nursing pin between two rows of Harleys while sixty criminals cheered loudly enough to trigger a car alarm.
That seemed to be the end of it.
Ray plans things, like I mentioned to you.
Hoss moved to stand next to my bed. I assumed it was someone’s project bike as he had been standing at the far end of the aisle the entire time next to something covered with a tarp.
“Dale,” Hoss murmured. “You are aware that we cannot continue.”
“Let what remain?”
“You’re selling a stranger your bike.” The tarp was dragged by him.
My FXR.
My real bike. Casey’s small hands left a worn mark on my grab-rail. I have a tank. Perched in the sun as if it had never left.
I was unable to speak. Casey was also unable to.
It turned out that Ray’s nephew never sold it to a Louisville collector. No collector was present. One of our brothers from the Evansville chapter was the “collector” who called me back and accepted my price without bargaining.
