You're sitting on your bike.
You can hear the birds singing,
As they fly into the blue sky.
One bike starts, the lady across the road jumps
As the bike fires into thunder,
Sixty other bikes fire up.
It's a symphony of highly tuned,
That are played by different sized engines.
As the throttle twists the tune is sweet.
The ground trembles,
Car alarms sound,
The roar is somewhere between
Deafening and a beautiful orchestra.
An orchestra conducted by unadulterated power.
Two by two,
The pack starts to move,
Cars stop and allow us to keep riding.
Thundering down the road,
Eight pairs of bikes in front,
And the world behind.
Half a mile of bikes,
As you ride through a valley of rock,
The orchestra echoes back onto you.
At sixty miles an hour you can feel the music penetrate through to your bone,
Out of the valley of rock, we rumble into the pub,
Parking on both sides of the road,
The colors of the rainbow gleaming with highly polished chrome lining the street,
As we leave our bikes to enter the pub.
Shoulder to shoulder, leather perfumed with the smell of beer.
You hear, "Two schooners of new, please."
As I order you a beer
We find a table and chairs outside in the beer garden
Set in the middle of sixty people.
A beer in one hand,
You in the other,
The Angels No Secrets playing in the background,
The bike reflects the afternoon sun in front of us,
Surrounded by a perfume of beer and leather,
The tone of your voice,
Reminds me there is a goddess in heaven.
Copyright © Gordon Andrews