“Easy, Ethan. We’re borrowing your dad.”
“He’s blind!” I snapped.
Bear nodded. “He’s not riding alone. He’s riding with me.”
Then he pulled out a folded, yellowed sheet of paper.
“Your dad made us swear something fifteen years ago. If any of us ever couldn’t ride on our own… the club would give him one last ride.”
Signatures filled the page. Some names were crossed out.
Gone. Dead.
“One last ride where?” I asked, my voice cracking.
Dad turned his cloudy eyes toward me.
“Willow Peak,” he said softly. “Where I proposed to your mom. Where we spread her ashes.”
Two hours away. Mountain roads. Sharp turns.
“No,” I said immediately.
“Son,” Dad replied gently, “there are worse things than dying.”
He paused.
“Like forgetting who you are.”
The Ride I Couldn’t Stop
I stood there in pajama pants, watching four aging bikers prepare to take my blind father on what might be his final ride.
Then I remembered my mom’s words:
Your dad doesn’t just exist on that bike. He lives.
“Wait,” I said. “If you’re doing this… I’m coming.”
Bear smiled. “Convoy rules. Stay behind the last bike.”
Twenty minutes later, I was following them into the mountains.
Every stop, they described the world to him.