A Memory & A Photograph
This probably isn’t a typical blog post you’re looking to read. This is a story - and I’m not telling it for you to know more about me, I’m telling it because it’s about a memory and a photograph. Photography isn’t always about choosing the right lens, making sure the lighting is just right, or the decision of whether it’ll be in color or black and white. Photography is about capturing moments with a purpose, allowing it mean something to you, and sharing it with the world.
This is my Pops; a retired flat track racer, a motorcycle whisperer, a man born with a passion. I came along long after he stopped racing, but this last weekend gave me a glimpse of a part of my dad I've always wanted to know; a part that made him into the man he is today.
I've spent a good part of my life hanging out at Jim's Power To Go, watching my dad rebuild engines, drain old fuel, install new piston rings, clean gunked up carboraters, and easily take 45 minutes of a customer's day, telling them the story of when he fell asleep in his desk chair after lunch and woke up to a mouse crawling on his shoulder (...or was it a rat on his face? Needless to say, the story has grown over the years)! And in the years I've spent watching him, I have seen him slow down a little; partially from an old racing injury and a knee replacement, but also from wishing he was restoring his neglected garden instead of a neglected bike, flying his Starfighter drone around with his grandkids, chasing the dang turkeys off the lawn with his wrist rocket, and relaxing on the back deck with a cold beer in one hand, his beautiful bride in the other, and without a care in the world except which Hallmark movie my mom picked out that he'll end up falling asleep to 5 minutes in.
But on this day, as we stepped into the arena, I had never seen my dad move so fast nor watch his hope of passing on the job of bleeding break lines to someone else, temporarily vanish so quickly. He instantly beelined to the pits in search of a particular bike, and as I trailed behind him, I saw his heart and a piece of his history slowly unfold before me - Racers getting ready in the pit, their hotshoes grinding against the pavement as they head to the track, the deafening roar of their engines, and anxious spectators keeping warm from a mixture of adrenaline and exhaust fumes while holding their breath watching the racers go further and further broadside.
As I gaze into these photos I took with my phone, I realize it was that night and that memory that was being made, when I truly felt like I understood my dad in a way I never had before. I was able to live in a piece of his history - The track, the air, the resurrected bike he built for his late brother in the 70’s making its debut, the brave man who raced it in his honor, and the #17 that will forever be bolted to its vintage frame... are all part of who my dad is. This memory and this photograph are now a part of my history, that hopefully I’ll get to share with my kids someday.
Born to be a legacy, born to be revolutionary, born to be sideways.
-Thank you for coming along with me in this adventure.