Father-Son Ride

"Can we go for a motorcycle ride, Dad?" he asks.

"Sure," I reply. It doesn't take any persuading to get me out on the bike.

Sunday morning, skipping out on church. Singing hymns while riding past church parking lots packed full of cars. Rolling on the throttle and zooming past. Twisting through the hills, twists and switchbacks, the tree-lined streets of the Fall Creek area.

"Do you like twisty roads?" I ask.
"I ... don't know yet," he replies.
"Fair enough," I shrug.

"Do you like going fast?" I ask.
"I like going as fast as we possibly possibly can," he replies.
"Okay," I reply. Rolling on the throttle and pushing toward the redline. Rapid acceleration is the desired sensation. It matters more than top speed. It doesn't matter to him that I travel the speed limit; it matters that we reach the speed limit in under 3 seconds.

"Are you doing okay back there?" I ask.
"I am doing good," he replies.

"Slug-bug blue!" he yells, pointing at a passing VW Beetle.

"Are you getting hungry," I ask.
"Kinda," he replies.
"Would you like to stop for something to eat?"
"Yes," he replies.
"Would you like to eat our picnic lunch or just a snack," I ask.
"Just a snack," he replies.

Stop at a park, eat our snack. Explore. Find a baseball in the outfield. Play catch.

"Good throw!"
"Thanks, Dad."

Lots of time spent exploring, tossing a ball, exploring some more.

"Ready to go?"
"Yeah"

"Okay, let's gear up," I say. "Do you need help with your helmet?"
"No, I can do it myself," he replies.

Then, after a moment, "Is this right?"
"No, here, look at my fingers when I do it ... see?"

"Okay," he tries again, "How's this?"
"Good job!"
"Thanks, Dad."