I get my love of riding back roads from my dad. Long before I had my own car, long before I even knew where those roads led, I learned what it meant to move through the world with no destination, no rush—just freedom. That lesson began on the seat of his motorcycle.

When I was little—four or five years old—he never sat me behind him. I always rode in front. My small hands rested against the gas tank, my legs sticking out awkwardly, and his arms curved around me to grip the handlebars. The leather of his jacket brushed my shoulders, the smell of gasoline and fresh-cut grass filling the air as the wind rushed past. He wanted me to see, not just to ride. To watch the fields flicker by, to notice the sky shifting with every mile, to feel the vibration of the engine buzzing through my bones. It wasn’t just transportation. It was a kind of communion.

I remember when Mom tried working at the sewing factory with my grandmother for a short time. Daddy would pull up to daycare on his bike, chrome catching the sun, and my heart would leap with excitement. He’d lift me up, secure my little white helmet, and off we’d go. The ride home was always a blur of wind and noise, the world reduced to motion and trust. When I started school, he was working third shift, but sometimes he’d appear out of nowhere to pick me up. The sound of that engine at the curb turned heads, and classmates thought it was the coolest thing. So did I.

By the time I was eight, I wasn’t just riding—I was learning to drive. The first time he let me take the handlebars, the bike trembled under my grip, but he was right there, steadying me. Soon after, it was dirt bikes and four-wheelers, mud splashing my jeans, sun warming my back, the sharp scent of pine and dust heavy in the air. Outside became my sanctuary. Outside was freedom. Outside was peace.

It wouldn’t be honest to paint the picture without its shadows. My dad wasn’t perfect. There were hard moments too, and they left their own marks. But alongside them, there was richness—gifts I still carry. He gave me back roads, engines, freedom, and the kind of memories that live in my senses as much as my mind: the roar of a motor, the sting of wind in my eyes, the safe circle of his arms around me.

And he gave me words. Every day of my life, the sun never set without my dad telling me he loved me. Not once. Even as an adult, through changes and distance, he made sure I heard it: I love you. Those three words were his daily ritual, his anchor, his way of steadying me even when everything else felt uncertain. Imperfect man, imperfect father, but always—always—loving me.

That’s the complicated truth of family: we inherit both the pain and the beauty. Love, when it comes from imperfect people, can still plant seeds that grow into strength, resilience, and unexpected joy. It can live on in ways they never intended.

Today, driving down a back road on my way to an appointment in Florida, a motorcycle appeared out of nowhere and passed me. The sound of it ripped through the air, and for an instant, it was as though time folded in on itself. I saw him—Daddy’s hands gripping the handlebars, steady as ever. And I saw that little blonde four-year-old in her too-big helmet, perched in front of him, laughing into the wind.

That little girl is still here. Every time I hear the growl of an engine. Every time I feel the rush of wind across my face. Every time I take a back road just to see where it goes. My dad’s lessons live on—not just in memory, but in the way I move through the world.

And maybe that’s what legacy really is. Not perfection. Not a flawless history. But the pieces of love, freedom, and wonder that outlast the brokenness. The moments that return when you least expect them—like the smell of gasoline in summer air, the rumble of a passing motorcycle, the echo of a father’s voice whispering I love you.

It’s why I still find myself choosing the back roads, even now. They are slower, quieter, often overlooked—but they remind me of who I am, where I came from, and the love that carried me forward. The back roads are my inheritance. My reminder that even imperfect love can leave a perfect mark.

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