My father and I began riding motorcycles together almost 10 years earlier—in spite of his thinly veiled reservations. I was, he knew, ungraceful in many things, and the combination of horsepower and my preternatural lack of coordination would likely be a deadly combination. Perhaps to his surprise, and certainly to mine, I grew to love the sport and became a passably competent rider. Competent enough, that is, to at least fake keeping up with a rider, then in his 60s, who derived great satisfaction from shaming bikers half his age into performing their “personal best” in the turns. Together we logged many thousands of miles on two continents, attended to each other in emergency rooms following our periodic spills, and generally sucked the marrow from this wonderful sport. The cancer diagnosis had threatened to bring this, our principal form of bonding, to an untimely end. The celebration ride signified much more just than his victory over the disease.