It was early morning. The spin of the earth created the illusion that humans call sunrise. A new day had arrived, and for an eight-year-old boy, it promised adventure.
I was jumping on my bed—ahhh, the patience of my mother. I was a kid with more energy than I knew what to do with. Years later, after I had sold my Aikido schools and returned to university, I was diagnosed with ADHD. That diagnosis gave me insight into more than just myself. It helped me appreciate not only my mother’s patience, but the patience of almost everyone who had ever shared life with me.
As I bounced from mattress to mattress spring, my attention drifted to the window. Beyond it lay the train tracks that separated our neighbourhood from another housing project called Essex Court. Ironically, “the other side of the tracks” in our neighbourhood simply brought you to another project. I’ve always found humour in that expression. Feel free to smile with me.
Looking back now, I sometimes wonder if there is a greater force quietly guiding our lives. Certain moments seem ordinary until years later, when you realize they changed the direction of your thinking forever.
This was one of those moments.
I looked out the window and saw my father.
He was pulling the go-kart that one of his co-workers had built for me the day before.
Why would my dad be pulling my go-kart?
Maybe he was as excited as I was.
Maybe he wanted to surprise me.
Maybe he was going to ask the neighbourhood kids to grab the broken broomstick we used as a push bar and spend the morning racing around the courtyard.
No.
Even at eight years old I knew that if my father had my go-kart, this story wasn’t going to end well.
Funny how trust can be established—or perhaps more accurately, how it can quietly disappear.
There he was, dressed in what every working man seemed to wear in those days: green work pants, a green button-up shirt with two breast pockets—one for pencils, the other for Rothman’s cigarettes. A cigarette almost always dangled from his mouth.
Paris fashion designers have missed an entire market.
That go-kart was magnificent through the eyes of a little boy.
A rope for a steering wheel.
A wooden backrest that served two purposes—it kept you from flying off when your friends pushed you as fast as they could, and it had a notch where the broom handle fit perfectly so another kid could launch you toward whatever danger looked like fun.
What more could a boy possibly want?
Without a word, my father lifted the go-kart over his head and threw it into the large metal dumpster beside our apartment building.
The crash echoed through the empty container like thunder.
Then…
silence.
Even the questions inside a child’s mind became quiet.
He swung the heavy dumpster doors shut.
A proper burial.
But the go-kart wasn’t the only thing that remained there.
The memory never did.
“I guess that race is over,” the boy thought.
Always keep your sense of humour… especially in the darker moments.
There was no more jumping on the bed.
The boy sat down.
No race would ever be run.
No finish line crossed.
No explanation given.
The only thing finished was the certainty that the go-kart would never be seen again.
Nothing was ever said about its disappearance.
Some crashes create too much fear to speak about.
Some things are simply never talked about.
Why did he do it?
Was he jealous that another man had built something that brought his son so much joy?
Was he trying to protect me from getting hurt?
Over the years I’ve learned that our minds often search for explanations that soften painful truths. We do it because we love people. We do it because the alternative is uncomfortable.
Whatever passed through my father’s mind that morning, something entered mine.
Distrust.
Not because of one single event.
No mountain becomes an avalanche because of one snowflake.
Distrust accumulated one layer at a time until it became an emotional ice wall that would take years to melt.
The little boy became a young man.
Eventually he looked back at that morning with different eyes.
It wasn’t the choice my father made that ultimately mattered.
It was the choice the man would one day make for that little boy.
This isn’t about making my father into a villain.
He wasn’t.
At times he was jealous.
At times he was angry.
At times he was deeply conflicted.
He was also trying, with the understanding he possessed, to do what he believed was best.
Life becomes much lighter when we stop trying to rewrite other people’s stories.
A father is who he is.
A mother is who she is.
A brother, sister or friend is who they are.
Acceptance doesn’t mean agreement.
It means refusing to let another person’s choices determine who we become.
Today I can honestly say I’m grateful that morning happened.
Not because it felt good.
It didn’t.
But because it eventually taught me something I couldn’t have learned any other way.
It’The most important choice wasn’t the one made for the boy that morning. It was the one the man would one day make for that same little boy.s not the choice that was made for the boy that matters, it’s the choice the man he becomes for that boy that is what is important.
As a father myself, I’ve tried to be direct and honest with my daughter.
Including about my own shortcomings.
There is strength in admitting where our steering has failed.
If your go-kart pulls to one side…
repair the steering.
If the go-kart is gone…
build another one.
Or be grateful you still have a bicycle.
That morning the little boy ate his breakfast.
He walked outside.
He sat on his bike.
At least the bike wasn’t in the dumpster.
There’s almost always a way to keep moving.
Then…
he went for a very long bike ride.
This reflection is part of an upcoming book, Sunglasses in the Rain – Chuck Bates —A collection of personal stories exploring resilience, perspective, and discovering that life’s greatest teachers are often experiences we didn’t get to choose.