Rye House Poetry

Gary,
Great to put a face to a pile of magazines today! Thanks for chatting to me and getting me there in the first place with your cracking Mag and Blog. Had a bloody brilliant day. Whiskey sours and an inability to stop thinking about bikes lead me to writing this messy poem when I got home... thought you might like it. Best read with liquor and music.
All the Best
Gareth

(Photos by Gregory Mild. Paul Harrison, 4, was battered, but ok to race. Then his cam pulley sheared. A bad day.)

Race 1.
Or you could
just stay at home?

The plan of
motoGP and cans - damned to real
life dull by the hint of true dirt and proper people.

Not on any
Sunday, on this Sunday in Hoddestone.

My fantasy
to the test,

The racing
lust Bike porn of every web wander, close enough to touch. Dry terrified I wont
like it,

My daydreams
stuttering upon a reality they dont match.

Get Up and
Out - hung over head desmo soothed,

Go fast, Turn left,
go fast, turn left, A10, A holeshot start.

Its bang on.

Pixels from
pages pass with rooster tails,

XR pops,
Bros shimmy shreak,

Side saddle
roll outs with mono straights.

Slapped onto
sides - angles, lines, grumbles and glides.

Hot tea from
dirty hands feed friendly smiles that

Stride by
with the clunk thud racer limp gait.

Need a steel
shoe.

Grandstand
comfort teased by a For Sale sign.

Need a
Thunderbike.

Needed this
Sunday.

My side
track thoughts will backdrop with memories -

smells,
noises, new toys, flashes and dust.

Sideburn
Soul. Keep the faith. Cheers.