Bob Regan

I can only remember one piece of advice my father gave me: “Slow down when approaching a curve, then accelerate through it.” I think of him every time I drive a mountain road, and his advice has been helpful as a metaphor as well. When life has thrown me a curve and I locked the brakes, it did not go well. I, like my father, learned to commit to a course and power through. And I, in reaction to my father’s taciturn nature, learned to be forthcoming, perhaps overly so, and have passed down a surfeit of advice and anecdotes to my own children. They will be well equipped should they, one day, attempt to decipher and demystify me.

One moment remains frozen in time from his last summer. I was soon to leave home for college, and he had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer. I was riding my first set of wheels — a beat-up, BSA 650 motorcycle — up Glenwood Way when I glanced over to see Dad standing on the porch of our 1960s ranch. His eyes met mine, and he flashed a rare smile at the sight of his middle son roaring off on that black beast towards a future he would not live to see.

 Bob Regan