Off The Record

My 73-Year-Old Dad Blew $35k On A Harley — I Tried To Get His Money Back

Published on September 29, 2025

Instead of helping me pay off my loans, my 73-year-old father recently spent all of his retirement money on a $35,000 Harley Davidson, and he has the audacity to refer to it as his “last great adventure.”

He squandered fifty years of his life at that filthy motorcycle repair business, his hands forever smeared with grease, his hands stinking of motor oil and cigarettes, his faded tattoos and leather vest making me look foolish in front of my pals. Now that he has finally sold the store, he is “investing in his happiness” with a stupid midlife crisis motorcycle rather than using the money for anything constructive, like paying off his only daughter’s debt or making a down payment on a condo I’ve had my eye on.

He actually smiled when I challenged him yesterday about his self-centered choice, saying, “Sweetheart, at my age, all crises are end-of-life crises.” Like that’s amusing. As if his obligation to provide for me stopped when I became forty-two. He doesn’t realize that I am more deserving of that money than he is; I have decades ahead of me, and he will only ride that dumb bike until his heart stops beating on some far-off highway.

All of my acquaintances concur that parents ought to provide financial support to their kids, particularly when they are able to do so. However, Dad is always mentioning “the call of the open road” and how he has already scheduled a three-month cross-country journey, where he will travel to destinations he has always wanted to see “before it’s too late.”

What is it too late for? Is it too late to be a mindful father who prioritizes his child’s needs? My financial circumstances have already forced me to postpone my Bahamas holiday, but he intends to “live free” on the highway. It’s unfair that while he wastes what should have been my fortune on some pitiful last-ditch effort to feel youthful again, I’m stuck in my assistant manager position, drowning in debt.

Even if he didn’t give me his retirement fund, I had made the decision to accept it. I had every right and authority to take that money away from him.

I helped him set up his banking app three years ago, and I knew the password. He never updated it. I told myself that I wasn’t stealing. I was getting back what was rightfully mine. What any decent parent would have voluntarily provided.

I sneaked into his office while he was out in the garage, polishing the bike like it was a newborn. As I logged on, my fingers were shaking and my heart was hammering in my ears. I gazed at the display. Whatever was left over after the bike purchase was there. about $28,000.

My breath caught. I could pay off my credit card debt with that. Pay off my auto loan. Get me ahead on the rent, perhaps.

I was about to press “transfer,” though, when I heard him humming through the glass. He was using an old rag to clean the chrome while singing an off-key version of an old Bob Seger song. He seems so… content. Not like a man running away from his duties. A weary elderly man attempting to seize something before it vanished forever.

The money was not transferred by me. Not on that particular day.

However, the idea lingered in my mind. I kept going back to it, mentally defending it. He didn’t need the money, I reminded myself. that he would spend the remaining funds on roadside bars, cheap hotels, and possibly even another worthless bike.

He set out for the vacation a week later. didn’t bid farewell. “Gone chasing ghosts,” was written in his sloppy style on a note that was left on my kitchen counter. Avoid waiting up.

It was like being slapped across the face.

It was about six weeks before I heard from him. No calls, no postcards. Only the odd Instagram picture of long, deserted roads with his boots resting on the bike and sunsets blurring in the distance (he hardly knows how to use the program). It infuriated me. While he was playing biker cowboy in New Mexico or Utah, I was still here, eating ramen noodles, chasing down overdraft fees, and managing three side gigs.

Then the phone rang.

The night was a Thursday. I was wearing a face mask and browsing TikTok in bed. Arizona was the source of the number.

I’m Officer Delgado from the Coconino County Sheriff’s Office, Ma’am. Are you Mr. Bujar Hoxha’s daughter?

I felt sick to my stomach. I believed he had crashed. As I had predicted, he died on the side of the road.

However, it wasn’t the case. Not exactly.

It turned out that a ranger had discovered him unconscious on a hiking route close to Flagstaff. Dehydrated and confused. They suggested that he may have suffered from heat exhaustion or a small stroke, or possibly both. After they stabilized him and brought him to the hospital, he started to refuse to phone anyone but me.

He simply strolled off into the hills after parking the Harley at a gas station ten miles away.

The following day, filled with remorse, rage, and an unfamiliar kind of panic, I took off.

In that hospital bed, he appeared smaller. pale. Somehow his knuckles were still smeared with grease. He made a joke about the food being worse than prison when he saw me.

I didn’t chuckle.

I crossed my arms and said, “I told you this was a bad idea.” “You realize that you could have perished out there?”

He remained silent for a moment. simply peered out the window.

Indeed. I am aware.

A long pause ensued. Then he said, “What brought you here?”

That he had to ask bothered me. In actuality, though, neither did I know. I simply had to.

I stayed with him at a depressing motel off Route 66 for the next week as I helped him get better. It was uncomfortable. Naturally, money was the main topic of our many arguments. He cut it off when I tried to gently bring it up again.

Fixing bikes for individuals who couldn’t tell a spark plug from a shoelace was how I made every last penny. Elira, I didn’t sell that store to support your way of life.

My chest ached. It has nothing to do with lifestyle. I’m having trouble. Do you believe that working as an assistant manager is a glamorous job choice? I’m attempting to live.

At that moment, he gave me a serious look. The first time in a long time.

“I am aware that it is difficult. Yes, I do. However, you have no right to choose what my life is about. Just as I am unable to determine what constitutes yours.”

I remained silent. I simply walked out of the room.

But that night, something changed.

The following morning, I saw him gazing at the mountains while sipping a thermos of terrible motel coffee. He gave the seat beside him a pat.

“I’ve been considering the possibility that I didn’t treat you well in every way,” he added softly. However, I also didn’t bring you up to be defenseless.

He held up a hand, but I reacted angrily.

“Allow me to finish. You’re forty-two. Despite your injured pride, you are intelligent, bright, and have a good head on your shoulders. My money is not necessary for you. You must start over. And you alone are capable of giving yourself that.”

He produced an envelope. There was a $10,000 cheque inside.

That’s all I have to offer. Not all of it. However, enough to keep you afloat.

Stunned, I gazed at it. I didn’t get all I desired. However, it was something.

More significantly, it had nothing to do with guilt. It had the feel of respect.

We didn’t cry or embrace. That type of father-daughter relationship is not what we are. However, I felt a new sensation blossom in my chest as I saw him get back on that Harley and head for Nevada.

Perhaps pride. or comprehension.

I made good use of that money back home. paid off my cards with the highest interest rates. moved out of the expensive apartment and into a little studio. Teaching online classes in product design, which I used to love before life got in the way, was a side gig I actually enjoyed.

I gave up looking for help.

I also began to live within my means. constructing gradually. Not with bitterness, but with a strange tranquility.

He mailed me a postcard from Oregon three months later.

spotted a bear. I was thinking of you. Still unsightly. Baba, love.

I sobbed because I laughed so much.

Dreams we don’t understand are sometimes pursued by humans. And letting them is sometimes the best course of action.

Dad was a lifelong fixer of broken objects. Perhaps he’s doing that with himself right now.

Perhaps in order to learn how to rebuild, I also needed to break a little.

Allow them to pursue their dreams. If you must, pursue your own as well. Simply put, don’t count on someone else to support you the entire time.

If you’ve read this far, please hit “like” and share it with someone who has had a difficult talk with a parent. Keep in mind that second chances don’t always turn out the way we anticipate them to.

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