Dad’s home Saturday, which hasn’t happened in a while. I know he’s got some jobs lined up out in his shop, so I offer to help him. We have most of our best talks while we’re turning wrenches anyway, and I want his input on a few of the final chair specs before I finalize the order form. But when I suggest going out there together, he shakes his head.

“Not today, Emms. I don’t have anything interesting lined up at the moment.”

“Then where are we going to catch the inspiration to finish customizing this chair?” I joke.

Dad looks troubled for a second. Then his face brightens.

“You want inspiration? I’ll do you one better,” he says with a little smile. “Grab your helmet and pads. And your water bottle. Be right back—need to run to the shop for a sec.”

Since I’m right near the key hook, I start to grab the ring with the shop key on it to toss over to him, but it’s not hanging in its usual place.

“I got it,” Dad says, holding it up. “Be right back.”

He comes back with his own helmet and pads crammed into a bag and his skateboard over one shoulder. I can’t even remember the last time I saw him get on that.

When I realize what he’s got in mind, I grin.

Dad’s right. His idea is way better.

We load the truck and drive the hour and a half to Columbia, which has the nearest skate park. It’s also where my doctor, therapists, orthotist, and wheelchair guy all have their offices. Other than that, we don’t get out here much.

But today we just ride.

The park’s almost empty, so we have the smooth concrete bowls, the grind bars and steps and kickers mostly to ourselves. Dad heads straight for the biggest bowl and does a perfect drop-in. For a few minutes, I’m happy to watch him fly back and forth. Dropping in, getting low, then shooting back up into a perfect kick turn at each lip.

I’d almost forgotten how good he is—and not only for an old guy. He rides that board like it’s part of him. I recognize that in the zone look on his face, because I know I get it, too.

Of course, watching only lasts a few minutes. Then Dad rolls his board off to one side and helps me practice dropping in at one of the smaller bowls. The first few times he insists on running down beside me but finally loosens up enough to wait for me at the bottom. I want to try the grind rails, too, but Dad nixes that.

“Let’s wait until you have the right chair for that, Emms,” he says. “You want the grind bar option on the new one, right? We tear up the undercarriage on your regular chair, it’s still a few years before insurance will cover a new one.”

Much as I hate it, he’s right. Tearing up my regular chair skating could be tough to justify for insurance to pay for—that’s partly why Dad’s always done so many of my repairs himself.