The Reason to be


Like a hawk on the wing, it appeared through the mist
Swooping and leaning through lanes as they twist,
A crackling moan hanging soft in the wind,
The throttle–back bark of an old British twin.
Through the damp swirling mist it looked fuzzy and grey
A dull yellow, flickering lamp lit the way,
I pictured the rider with weary eyes bright,
From staring out into the gloom of the night.

I remember the time, but I`ll bore you to tears,
With tales from an old u`n who turns back the years,
Of drainpipes and leathers and white silken scarves,
Froffy coffee and coke in dank coffee bars,
Strutting like peacocks so sure of ourselves,
Never glancing at fluffy white petticoat girls,
Only Triumphs and Nortons that reeked of hot oil,
Commanded attention both fickle and loyal.

Innocent times of excitement and fun,
Defying the Gods on a wild chicken run,
Tuned up and racing a quarter mile,
Customized, in individual style.
We did as we pleased and made our own rules,
Not encased in a car or hemmed in by walls.
It was as it is, the reason to be,
Like the hawk on the wing, we ride to be free.