A Grandfather’s legacy By John Letteney #166428
THOUGH IT HAPPENED MANY years ago, I still remember the day. I was an almost-teenager and
wanted, somehow and some way, to figure out how to get my parents to let me buy a mini-bike. A friend had one for sale, but back then 50 bucks was a lot of money. I had the money, but that wasn’t the problem; permis- sion was. I spent weeks figuring out just the right words, but could never find just the right opportunity. Unbeknownst to me, my dad had
the same burning desire to start rid- ing, but he worried about the money, the safety and the message it would send to the kids. Is it really wise to spend hard-earned money on such a frivolous pursuit? What about all the household expenses that seemed to never go away? What if there was an accident? Then “The Day” came when I
overheard my parents talking about it, and my mother, much to my sur- prise, was supportive. At that point I knew I was good to go! I learned years later that their initial motorcy- cle discussion, the part I didn’t hear, included how they would handle the kids wanting to ride. They had planned ahead and set the ground rules for training and safe riding. My dad bought his initial bike, a
Honda CB200, and I got my 50cc mini-bike. His bike was reliable, and some years later he taught me how to ride on the street using that bike. My mini-bike was not so reliable, and we spent more hours fixing it than riding it. To me though, that was just as good. I was spending time with my dad, learning to love a sport at a young age. We rode together on the back of that little Honda for years until he got
28 BMW OWNERS NEWS March 2016
a bigger bike and passed the CB200 onto me. Riding with him was special, and we often found time to ride throughout my middle school, high school and college years. The bikes changed, getting bigger as time and finances allowed, and the rides got longer. My favorite was a ride from south- ern New York to Cape Cod, Mass., for a week of vacation—just the two of us. We rode all over the Cape, took a ferry to Mar-
tension release and therapy that motorcy- cling provided. She knew that; I had been a motorcyclist as long as she had known me. After several years of marriage, we were blessed with a son, so naturally the conver- sation advanced to when he would be able to ride. “When he is 18,” she said. Appar- ently mothers are more protective of their children than of their husbands!
I was
thinking he could ride at six years old, and we ended up compromising at 12. Twelve years is a long time to wait for a
riding buddy, but wait I did. And the day finally came. We planned ahead, got him the right helmet and protective gear, taught him how to sit and lean, and talked about the physics of riding. He, like his brothers to follow him, helped me work on the bike, clean it and prepare for trips. I was on my sixth bike by then, a touring bike, and regu- larly took long trips with friends. On every ride, my memories of that great trip to the Cape with my dad kept coming back, and I was longing for the day when I could share those memories and build new ones with my sons. On his birthday, a cold April day, he
John Letteney and his first son.
tha’s Vineyard and rode all over the island. I was on a Honda CB350 and learned the hard way that it was not a great long dis- tance bike. It was a special time to learn from and spend time with my dad. I knew I would always be riding. In fact,
before getting married, my fiancé and I had that very discussion. I talked about my pas- sion for riding, the family bonding and spe- cial experiences along with the solace,
woke up eagerly anticipating his ride later that day. If that were the only thing that happened on his birthday, it would have been a wonderful day. Much to his mother’s dismay—she hoped he would not like it— we had a great ride, and that started the tra- dition of him and his brothers riding with me. We went on organized rides, on charity runs, to rallies like Americade and more,
and we found a reason to ride whenever we could. What started as my dad’s passion was being handed down to the next generation. Due to health reasons, my dad stopped
riding that same year. The father, son and grandson ride was not to be. I wrote him a letter a short time later to tell him about our ride and the memories it brought back of my time riding with him. It was a letter to say “thanks” for cultivating a passion and
the club
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