For this year’s Father’s Day, we asked iMotorbike readers to send in their best stories about their dads and motorcycles. And now, here are our top picks for the 2025 Father’s Day special!
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In celebration of Father’s Day, iMotorbike invited readers to share their heartfelt stories about their fathers and motorcycles. Here, we’ve compiled some of the best entries for our 2025 Father’s Day special.
Reader’s Story #1 by Fildzah Hazirah
When I was a kid, every time a big motorbike roared past on the highway, I would stare at it until it disappeared from view. The sound of the engine wasn’t noise to me, it was thrilling! And if the rider happened to be a woman, my heart would flutter. I’d think, “How amazing would it be to ride like that one day?” Before I knew it, that sense of awe had taken root, and motorcycles became part of my dreams.
My dad, although he looked stern on the outside, actually had a heart full of humor and warmth. When he rode his ER6N, it wasn’t just the bike that moved, it felt like our whole life moved with it, full of stories and shared experiences. He never rode fast or took sharp corners like those who “knee-slide,” but instead rode the way he led our family—steady, calm, and always safely reaching the destination.
One of the funniest memories I have? We were out riding as a family, and since I didn’t have my license yet, I was riding pillion with my sister. My mum was behind my dad on his bike. Suddenly, a car emerged from a junction, and my dad had to brake hard. My sister didn’t have time to stop, and we crashed into the back of my dad’s bike! Both of us ended up on the road. It was chaotic, but even now, we still laugh about it. It’s moments like that which made us all so close.
My father’s love for bikes was no passing hobby. From the Naza Blade 250 to the ER6N, the Versys 1000, and even the GTR1400—the bikes came and went, but his passion for riding never faded. My siblings and I followed in his footsteps. When I finally got my license, my father gifted me a CBR500R. That’s when I realized—bikes weren’t just machines to him. They were his love language, one that not everyone understands.
These days, my dad doesn’t go on long rides anymore, but he still commutes to work on his SYM Husky300. Meanwhile, I carry on the legacy with my husband Azam, a fellow CBR650R rider. Our shared passion for motorbikes is actually one of the things that brought us together—and that passion, I owe to my father.
If there’s one thing I’m most grateful for, it’s growing up in a family that didn’t just share blood, but shared a passion. Three generations, one interest, and forever, one love.
Happy Father’s Day to my father Abdul Rahman, my brother Fidzrul Azuan, my brother-in-law Muzaimil Huzairi, and my husband Mohamad Azam. Thank you for continuing to ride with me—through the rain, the heat, and all the twists and turns of life.
Reader’s Story #2 by Megat Muhammad Ridzuan
The earliest memory I have of my father isn’t his face, but the deep, thunderous growl of his Kawasaki ZZR600. Even before I could properly form words, I knew that sound meant adventure.
That was me, behind my dad and my baby brother on the bike. I must have been no older than four or five, barely tall enough to peek over the seat of the massive machine that stood proudly in our garage. To me, it wasn’t just a motorcycle, it was a roaring beast, a steel horse that carried my father away in the mornings and brought him back smelling of gasoline. Then came the day he finally took me with him.
I can’t remember much else from that day, except gripping my dad’s shirt like my life depended on it while sitting on the pillion seat. The engine roared to life beneath us, buzzing in my chest. Before I could second-guess my bravery, we were moving.
The wind hit my face instantly, sharp and exhilarating. The world blurred around me: trees, houses, the occasional startled cat, all passing in a rush of color and sound. Then, he twisted the throttle.
The sudden burst of speed stole my breath. The bike leaned slightly as we rounded a corner, and for a split second, I was convinced we’d tip over. My heart pounded in my ears. It was terrifying… and beautiful. Little did I know, this was only the beginning.
My father was no stranger to pain. I truly understood the risks of riding when he crashed his Suzuki Panther on his way back from work. I remember the phone call, and how my mother and I rushed to the clinic. There he was, sitting on the bench with scrapes down his arms and legs.
I think that was when he stopped riding for a while. The ZZR600, the bike that had carried me on my first ride, was sold. The front porch felt empty without its growl. For years, the only two-wheeled machine in the house was my bicycle. But riders don’t stay off bikes forever.
Years later, he came home with a 1995 Ducati Monster M600, a raw, snarling beast with a mind of its own. It was nothing like the ZZR. The Ducati was louder, angrier, and demanded respect. And of course, as a reckless high school kid, I had to try it when he wasn’t looking.
The first time I twisted the throttle in secret, the front wheel nearly lifted off the ground. The power was instant, brutal. My heart pounded as I wrestled it under control, palms sweating inside my gloves. I wondered, “How does he tame this thing every day?”
But even my father, as skilled as he was, couldn’t outride fate. One morning, a car ran a red light and smashed into him, a hit-and-run. At the hospital, he was bruised and battered. The Ducati was a twisted mess. Yet somehow, no broken bones. Just deep cuts, aching muscles, and a bike that would take months to repair.
Most people would quit. Not him. After the Monster was rebuilt, he didn’t sell it. Instead, he added another Ducati to the garage, a 2014 Hyperstrada. This one was different—smarter and safer with rider aids and a smoother power delivery. It was built for distance and became his weekend escape machine.
But the road is never without danger. Another accident happened, a car entered his lane and forced him into a road barrier. This time: a broken toe… and an excuse to upgrade the exhaust. The Hyperstrada survived. So did he.
Through every crash and close call, one thing never changed—his love for riding. The freedom of two wheels was worth every scar. And little did I know, that same fire was burning in me too.
University life brought me my first real taste of freedom: a Yamaha FZ150. It wasn’t the fastest or the loudest, but it was mine. That little bike taught me everything: how to feather the clutch in traffic, how to lean into corners without fear, how to read the road beneath me. It was forgiving, reliable, and perfect for the long rides between campus and home. By the time I graduated, I could throw it into bends with a confidence that bordered on recklessness.
Then, my father did what he always did: he upgraded. The BMW S1000XR entered our lives like a king taking its throne. A technological marvel, bristling with electronics, power modes, and a silky-smooth inline-four howl. The moment he brought it home, I knew what it meant: the Ducati Hyperstrada, his old faithful, would finally be passed down to me. And just like that, I had my first big bike.
Riding with my father took on a new rhythm. He’d lead on the S1000XR, a missile in sport-touring clothing, while I followed on the Hyperstrada, its V-twin growl echoing through the hills. We carved through Karak Highway to Bentong for lemang, sometimes we went to Temerloh for tempoyak ikan patin, or charged up to Genting just to feel the cool air and attack the corners, or sprinted to Tanjung Malim for breakfast. Every ride was an unspoken lesson from him—showing me the lines, the pace, the art of it.
Then came the BMW RT. For two glorious weeks, my father’s colleague lent us his luxo-tourer, and our garage became a Bavarian-Italian alliance. My father, ever the gentleman rider, took the RT. My younger brother, now bitten by the riding bug, claimed the Hyperstrada. And me? I finally got to unleash the S1000XR.
The power was intoxicating. Where the Hyperstrada was raw and punchy, the BMW was surgical, effortless, smooth, devastatingly quick. I understood why my father loved it. For those two weeks, we were a trio of mismatched machines, riding just for the sake of riding. We even went to Kuala Selangor for some roti canai pelangi.
When my dad returned the RT, the fleet kept growing. I sold off my FZ150 just to replace it with a new bike. The Kawasaki ER6F joined next, a no-frills, ABS-less middleweight that reminded us why we loved riding in the first place. No traction control, no wheelie prevention, just pure, unfiltered feedback. It became my brother’s favorite, the bike he’d toss into corners with a fearlessness that both impressed and terrified me.
Our weekend rides became tradition. The three of us—father, eldest son, youngest son—rolling out at dawn, engines syncing like a mechanical choir. Lemang in Bentong, breakfast in Genting. The long way home through the twisties, each of us finding our rhythm.
Until the day the rhythm broke. It happened on the way back from Lemang To’Ki. A slick patch of oil, invisible until it was too late. My brother, mid-corner on the ER6F, lost the front. The bike slid, slammed into the barrier. The sound of metal scraping still haunts me. He broke his femur. The bike was a mess.
Recovery took six months before he could walk without crutches. The ER6F was totaled. Something had shifted. The weekend rides weren’t the same. My brother still rode, but the carefree joy was tempered by caution. My father, though he never said it, carried the weight of knowing the risks had become real for his sons, not just himself.
The bikes still sat on the front porch, waiting. The roads still called. But for a while, we listened a little less. Because some crashes don’t just hurt bones, they bruise the soul.
Time has a way of softening the edges of fear, but it never truly erases the lessons learned. My brother eventually returned to riding, though his choice of machine spoke volumes, a humble SYM VF3i moped, a far cry from the snarling ER6F he once threw into corners. It wasn’t about speed anymore; it was about the simple joy of still being on two wheels. And with that, I understood him completely.
Our rides changed after his accident. The reckless abandon of our youth gave way to something more deliberate, more appreciative. I still leaned into corners, but now I did so with a sharper awareness of the road’s treachery. My father, ever the quiet mentor, noticed the shift. He never lectured, never said I told you so. Instead, he led by example, smooth, controlled, and always respecting the machine beneath him.
The BMW S1000XR remained his steed, its electronic safety net a reassuring presence. I still rode the Hyperstrada, its familiar growl now a comforting constant in my life. And though our weekend rides were fewer, they became more meaningful. Genting’s twisties, Bentong’s open stretches, even lazy loops around the neighborhood, every mile was a reminder of why we kept riding, despite the risks.
My father was the anchor of it all. His passion for motorcycling wasn’t just about the thrill; it was about the freedom, the discipline, the unspoken bond between rider and machine. He never pushed me into riding, but his quiet encouragement, a nod of approval when I aced a tricky corner, a shared grin after a long ride, shaped me more than any words could.
Now, when I twist the throttle, I carry his lessons with me: “Respect the bike. Read the road. Ride home safely.” The ghost of my younger, wilder self still lingers, but it’s tempered by wisdom both earned and inherited.
And on those rare, golden mornings when the three of us still ride together, my father on the BMW, me on the Hyperstrada, my brother on his modest moped, I realize something profound. This isn’t just a hobby. It’s a legacy. One built on asphalt, gasoline, and an unbreakable bond that even crashes couldn’t shatter.
So thank you, Dad. For the rides. For the lessons. For teaching me that the real joy of motorcycling isn’t just in the speed. It’s in the journey, and who you share it with. The End.
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