For my father, large gloves were laughably small. Extra large gloves—if he could get them on at all—would stretch to where they looked like balloons inflated with water. He rode with gardening gloves, and, during a luckless period when he couldn’t find anything that fit, welding gloves. But then, at the back of a motorcycle shop, I found a pair of new (and filthy) Craig Vetter branded gloves from the ’70s. They were astonishingly ugly. Pink and orange and yellow and brown and magenta leather scraps quilted together. They weren’t retro. They were regrettable. 

I tried one on. I lowered my hand to my side. The glove fell off. I knew I’d found them. My father was elated. He didn't care how they looked. He appreciated the cut of a fine suit, but the notion that motorcycle gear could be stylish held no interest to him. Together with his two-tone leather jacket (light leafy green and deep forest green) he was a sight. In the presence of other motorcyclists, I always expected someone to make a quip—good-natured or otherwise—about his gear, but no-one ever did. It didn't register to me that my father, even as an old man, had a physical presence that discouraged criticism.   

As he aged his skin became as thin as tissue paper. At the least provocation he would bleed. Just handling a piece of emery cloth would cause blood to seep. A genuine cut caused a bloodbath. He’d never stop midway through a task, but later I’d see bandages on his hands. Once or twice he cursed under his breath about the frustrations of growing old.     

Through those hands and forearms he could summon great amounts of torque. I’d have all my weight on an 18-inch breaker bar and not be able to make a nut budge. He’d clamp his hands down directly over mine and lean into it. And, always, a drop or two of blood left behind. Sometimes, after he’d gone back into the house, I’d see blood on my hands, and think I’d cut myself. But the blood I’d thought was mine, was his.