My Dad practically raised my brother and I on road bikes. We both got out first one at 13. We were allowed to drive around the home place on them until we got to the age of 14, and could get our license. Once we got our license, we were allowed to ride anywhere within the city. By the time I was 15, I was riding across the country during the summers seeing what I could see. My Dad was with us, of course, on all the trips we took. We camped out at night and rode during the days. It was a blast.
The only person in my family that ever had a serious motorcycle accident was my Dad. When he was in his 40's, he made a trip up the east coast alone. When he was in Pennsylvania, he hit a patch of oil in a curve and went down. He fractured his ankle and broke two ribs. His bike was bent up but ride-able. He picked it up, bent the foot pegs and handle bars back into position and rode it home. He went to see a doctor after he got home.
From there after, his work buddies called him "Quaker State".
He was one tough old guy.
And I miss him.