My stepfather is good to the bone, but you couldn’t tell by looking at him. He has a weightlifter’s build, a Hell’s Angel mustache, and menacing eyes that are more bark than bite.

Our relationship is made of silent mutual respect, even though we’re cut from separate cloth. As we’ve aged, our communication has become more candid.

Two weeks ago in front of our big-screen mind-sucker, he felt easy to spark up a conversation. It was not too lengthy, but passionate.

“Everybody is strokin’ somebody.” Apparently he felt the need to rant about work.
“They don’t even ask us little guys our opinions.” He works for an American Honda warehouse. Every five years or so the management plays musical chairs and the new breed flocks in with whips and whistles. Managers at every level have a fancy plan, and a neat chart, that will save the company money. So the crew must relearn a job they already know.

Lately, every worker has to carry a Palm Pilot thingy, which isn’t just hard to learn, but by using it the workers get less done. “Some guys drag their asses and wait for overtime.”
All it would take to save money and have more efficient production would be to ask his opinion. This justly frustrated man is not the stepfather I know. Some people have double lives, but he is forced to live both sides of the coin.

It is a visceral sight to watch him let loose on his Honda 250x CRF. This is his smallest monster. As he throttles her and takes flight off a jump, he is free. On that stage of dirt and dust, he is a hedonist unafraid of persecution.

As Father’s Day approaches, I honor him with a ten-gun salute and a pair of dark Mexican cigars. If you become the little guy, make rage and damnation in a part of your world, and don’t sweat every jump. If you become the boss-hog of the crew, remember that every little hands-on worker is more essential and knowledgeable than you.

Spoil your father for a day, and learn from him for a lifetime