The Gift With a Catch

“Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.”

The Gift with a catch

1967 was the year my world changed in ways I never anticipated. It was my tenth birthday, and the summer sun seemed brighter, the sky bluer, and the world more expansive than ever before. My much older brother, Donny, as I called him when I was little, stood there with a grin on his face, holding the handlebars of a miniature motorcycle—a two-stroke minibike that had been the object of my fascination since I could remember. Donny had gotten it when he was thirteen, and it had become a symbol of freedom and adventure, a dream that I never thought would be within my reach.

The Mini Bike 

“Happy birthday, Richard,” he said, pushing the minibike towards me. I couldn’t believe it. My eyes widened in awe, my heart pounding with excitement. But then came the catch—the minibike didn’t run. Donny explained that there was a problem with the clutch, a concept I didn’t even understand at the time. It was a bittersweet moment, the dream tantalizingly close yet just out of reach.

I turned to the one person who could fix anything—my father. Dad was a self taught engineer who worked Boeing Aircraft, a genius with machines, and I was certain he could breathe life back into my new treasure. He spent hours examining the bike, frowning in concentration. Finally, he looked up and said, “Richard, it needs a special spring for the clutch. It’s not something you can just find anywhere.”

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and the minibike remained silent in the corner of our garage. I kept asking Dad, “Did you find the spring yet?” His answer was always the same: “No, Richard, I’m still looking.”

My anticipation slowly turned into frustration and then into a dull ache of disappointment. The minibike became a constant reminder of a dream deferred. Years passed, and as I grew older, my interests shifted. By the time I was sixteen and got my driver’s license, the minibike was a forgotten relic, gathering dust in the shadows.

One day, during a particularly nostalgic cleaning of the garage, I stumbled upon the minibike again. With a mix of curiosity and my now-budding mechanical skills, I decided to take a closer look at the clutch problem. To my astonishment, the so called “special” spring turned out to be nothing more than a standard part available at any hardware store.

I felt a surge of mixed emotions—anger, betrayal, confusion. I confronted my father, my voice trembling with the weight of years of pent-up frustration. “Dad, why didn’t you tell me? It was just a regular spring! I could have ridden it!”

My father looked at me with a softness in his eyes I hadn’t noticed before. “Richard,” he said quietly, “I was scared. That minibike was powerful and you were so young. I didn’t want you to get hurt. I made up the story about the special spring to protect you.”

At that moment, being much older a rush of understanding and empathy washed over me. I saw the worry lines on my father’s face, the depth of his love and concern. It was a bittersweet realization that sometimes the people who love us most have to make difficult choices to keep us safe.

I ended up repairing the mini bike myself and because my brother never really gave me anything of real value I sold it to a neighbor for $75 and kept all the money for myself.  Remember $75 in 1973 is approximately worth over $500 in today’s dollars, adjusting for inflation. 

As a parent now, I find myself thinking back to that old minibike and the lessons it taught me about protection and love. I’ve come to appreciate the lengths my father went to shield me from harm, even if it meant a few years of heartache and a dream unfulfilled.

I never did get to ride that minibike as a kid, but in the end, it didn’t matter. The real gift my father gave me was his love and the wisdom that came with understanding his actions. And that, more than anything, is a gift I carry with me to this day.