Two Years. In Memorial.

In Loving Memory of My Dad – Rick
June 4, 2023
Two Years Later – But Always With Us

It still feels like yesterday.

June 4, 2023. A regular day. A sunny day. A perfect day for a ride. You were on your Harley—the place you loved most—doing what brought you joy and peace. Wind in your hair, road ahead of you, no worries, just freedom. You weren’t just riding—you were alive, present, and completely yourself.

And then you were gone.

It wasn’t supposed to end that way. Not that day. Not like that. There was no warning, no countdown, no last laugh, no final hug, no goodbye. Just a ride. And then a void.

I remember the call. I remember the scream on the other end of the line when Mom told me. That sound doesn’t leave you. It echoes. It brands itself into your bones. I remember the silence that followed—the kind that is so loud you can’t breathe.

Then I had to pick up the phone and do the unthinkable. I had to call your sisters. I had to call your daughter. I had to say those impossible words—the kind that don’t even feel real coming out of your mouth. The kind that no one is ever ready to hear. The kind that change everything.

We were robbed. That’s what it felt like. Robbed of more time. Of years we still expected. Of more Sunday rides, more sarcastic comments, more dad wisdom that came in the form of a short sentence and a raised eyebrow. We didn’t get a chance to prepare. There was no goodbye. Just shock. And grief.

You were a strong man. You had a work ethic that didn’t quit and a backbone of steel. You believed in doing things the right way, even if it was the harder way. You showed up when it mattered. You stood your ground. You didn’t say a lot, but when you did, people listened.

You weren’t flashy. You didn’t need attention. But people remembered you. They still do. You made an impact on the people you met—sometimes with a firm handshake, sometimes with a joke, sometimes with quiet support when someone needed it most. You were steady. You were consistent. You were the definition of old-school loyalty. If you said you’d be there, you showed up. If someone needed help, you didn’t ask questions—you just did the thing. That’s who you were.

Two years have passed since that ride. And still, sometimes, it feels like you just walked out the door. We carry on—because we have to. Life doesn’t stop. The days keep rolling. We smile again. We laugh. We gather for birthdays and holidays. But your chair is empty. Your voice is missing from the chorus of conversation. Your presence is a shadow in every memory.

Grief is strange. It’s not loud all the time. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it creeps in when the world is quiet. Sometimes it comes out of nowhere in the middle of the grocery store or at a red light. A song. A smell. The sight of a red Harley roaring past. And suddenly I’m back in that moment—the moment I realized you were gone.

But through all of it, I’ve held onto one thing—faith.

I’ll be honest, it hasn’t been easy. Faith was tested in the days after you left. I had questions that had no answers. Why that day? Why so soon? Why without warning? Why you? There’s a part of me that will always ache from the lack of closure.

But in the silence, I still believe. I believe God met you in that moment. I believe you were ushered into peace we can’t comprehend. And I believe you are still with us—in ways that are quieter, but just as real.

There have been moments I’ve felt your presence—driving down the road, sitting on the porch, or in the middle of a tough decision when suddenly I remember something you once said. Something simple. Something true. And it sticks.

You live in those moments. You live in the stories we tell. In the values we carry. In the way we work. In the way we protect our people. In the way we ride.

Because even now—we ride for you.

I like to believe you’ve got the best view now. That heaven has open highways with no traffic, no potholes, and the clearest skies. That you’ve got your boots on, your shades pulled down, and that familiar grin on your face. Free. Whole. Home.

We’re still here, riding on. Some days stronger than others. Some days still broken. But we ride with your memory in our hearts and your lessons in our hands.

You taught us more than you ever realized—how to be tough, how to be real, how to show up, how to stand firm. You didn’t just tell us how to live. You showed us. And now, we’re doing our best to honor that. To honor you.

Two years later, and we’re still learning how to live without you. But we’re also learning how to carry you with us.

Forever remembered. Forever missed. Forever loved.
Until we meet again, Dad... ride free.

– Dr. Nick