I didn't want my 18-year-old to get a motorcycle. But he wasn't asking for my permission

During the fall of his senior year in high school, my 18-year-old son approaches me with an idea. I’m sitting on our back deck, enjoying the mild afternoon with a book. Normally he comes to me only to ask about dinner. This time, he has a pitch. “Remember when you and Dad said we couldn’t fit another car in the driveway?”

“Uh huh,” I say.

“And you know how it’s hard always having to share your car with me?”

“Not hard, exactly, but okay.”

“If I got a motorcycle, it would solve both problems.”

My first impulse is to laugh but I don’t want to shut him down. I relax my face into an expression of equanimity. “Why a motorcycle?”

He shrugs. “I just like them.” He tells me about the research he’s been doing online. “ We could keep it in the garage.”

We’ve been encouraging him to think about his post-graduate plans. College? A gap year? I’ve been longing for him to find something that lights him up, and here it is.

“How do you even know you’ll like riding a motorcycle?” This is the kid who quit touch football out of fear of impact, who doesn’t snowboard in icy conditions.

“Oh, I’m confident I’ll like it,” he says, smiling.

“You need a license to ride a motorcycle, right?”

“Of course.”

When I tell my husband, he responds with a “Hmmm.” He’s someone who resists stressing about his young adult children.

He offers to take a motorcycle safety course as a first step. We agree to pay for it. Anything to give him more practice and buy some time.

I seek opinions the next morning at the dog park. “No way, no motorcycles, ever,” I hear. “You can’t let him do it.” I admire other parents’ resolve. My kids have been able to talk me into all sorts of things I theoretically resisted — our dog for instance.

My son is persistent. He seeks me out to talk over the next week: “Have you thought about my idea?” I don’t want to give him an answer, I just want to keep him talking. He attempts to bridge the distance between his fantasy and my fears. He’s clear and reasonable, and animated. Each time he gives me a little more reason to listen, a tip he’s picked up about bike safety, another bread crumb. I worry that continuing to talk, and listen, is an implicit yes. I want to keep the option to cancel at any time.

He offers to take a motorcycle safety course as a first step. We agree to pay for it. Anything to give him more practice and buy some time. He wants to get a bike in December when the prices are low. If he waits, we tell him we’ll give him money as a graduation gift.

We’re dancing. The boy who used to stand on our feet and follow our steps is trying to lead.

The day in December arrives for his motorcycle license test. We plan to visit a dealership after the DMV, just the two of us, so he can show me what kind of bike he likes. Not to buy, just to look. I want to see the bikes through his eyes, with enthusiasm. At the shop, I sit on a big cruiser to get the feel. It’s comfortable, powerful. He points to the model he prefers, a little purple Yamaha built to zip between cars.

We spend more time together than we have in years. The more he talks about bikes, the more I get to know my son. I’m yielding to the idea.

Then I hear a story about a friend’s nephew who died on his 18th birthday, riding his new motorcycle and I can’t shake the cold grip of dread.

All through winter, my son keeps talking. He’s found a bike he really likes, an all black Yamaha R3; it’s a good starter model.

“Won’t it be harder to see you at night?” I ask.

“Maybe, but it looks cool.”

A-ha! “Is looking cool more important than safety?”

“Not more important,” he says, “just important.”

The more specific his vision gets, the less comfortable I feel. My husband doesn’t love the idea, but he sees that our son is serious. I ask my husband, “Is it too late for me to change my mind about this?”

“Yes, it is,” he says.

The night before our son plans to visit a dealer to start negotiations for the bike he wants, I become frantic, convinced this is a terrible mistake. I pull my son aside. “You’re not going to be happy with me,” I tell him. “I’m not ready for this. We’re going to have to wait.” The relief I feel is tremendous.

He’s hurt and angry. After months of negotiating in good faith, I’ve suddenly changed the plan.  “I’m gonna do it, you know,” he says. I know. But I also know he doesn’t have enough money to buy a new bike yet.

He’s taking care of the registration, the inspection, the insurance. He is fixing the bike himself. Old parts lay scattered on the garage floor.

We arrive at spring break of his senior year. My husband and I take our daughter out of town for a few days. When we come back, there is a black motorcycle in the garage. Our son appears, jaw set, hands jammed in his pockets, to tell us he bought it off Facebook marketplace for cheap. He’s taking care of the registration, the inspection, the insurance. He is fixing the bike himself. Old parts lay scattered on the garage floor.

That you went behind our backs only proves my point that you’re not mature enough, I say. My husband and I are both angry and in search of contrition. Our son is calm. “Mom, I love you,” he says. “But I told you I would do it.”

He spends hours in the garage working on the bike, following tutorials on YouTube, going back and forth to Autozone for parts. I wonder if all this self-sufficiency will lead him towards concrete plans for next year.

Soon enough, he gets it running.

The first few weeks, while he’s getting used to the bike, he stays on local streets. He promises to be careful. “I don’t want to get hurt, either,” he reminds me. I watch him from the window looking right and left and right before pulling out of the driveway. He’s dressed in heavy, protective clothing.

After he pulls away, I listen for the sound of a collision. Then I wait for the rumble of him returning home.

One night, he takes the bike out after dark for a couple of hours. I lie in bed, trying to inhabit his perspective—maybe riding to him is like skiing to me, an attempt at flight. I know what it’s like to go a little too fast and love it. I look for writing to remind me that motorcycle riding is a normal everyday activity. A couple of lines from Melissa Holbrook Pierson capture what feels like irreconcilable truth: “What can be truly fun that does not remind us of danger? What could make us feel alive that doesn’t remind us of death?”

I learn to fall asleep even while he’s still out, released from making decisions that are no longer mine.

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