Sunday morning shocked to life,
high pitch tone, brain in strife.
Up and check the two wheeled steed,
four o’clock with eyes that bleed,
mount the trailer, start the car,
three hour journey, not that far.
They told me it would be great fun,
for a septic stranger on the Pioneer Run.
Sun comes up, its six o’clock,
caustic carriage, belching muck,
soulless roads and aching miles,
time that presses, time that flies,
black of road meets field of green,
Tattenham Corner? Never been.
At the bottom of the ladder rung,
The septic stranger on the Pioneer Run.
Horses of a two wheel stature,
gather here to battle nature.
Castrol R and petrol fumes,
bone dome hero`s, no hats with plumes.
Coffee cold and eggs hard boiled,
to clear confusion, starter toils,
babble, muddle, starter gun?
For the septic stranger on the Pioneer Run.
Remember map and route from start,
past the lights and past the park,
round the island up the hill,
waving people, arms like mills,
down the slope, faster and faster,
into second, bloody disaster,
out it jumps its not much fun,
the septic stranger on the Pioneer Run.
Soldier on holding second in,
try to think past engine din,
barrel hot and burning leg,
sweat is steaming down my neck,
Rovers, Clinos, sailing past.
Solo Triumph, destined last.
Engine sick and bearing gone,
For the septic stranger on the pioneer run.
Into Brighton, nearly there,
Using feet, for brake blocks bare,
Staggers into Madera Drive,
happy heart and face all smiles,
Nearly finished, cut the gas,
waving, clapping as I roll past,
time for tea, it was bloody fun,
For a veteran of the Pioneer Run.
Makes me think that ...
“Horses of a two wheel stature, gather here to battle nature.” Some days going to work is not like any other, even for the curator of a historic motoring museum. Getting to ride a veteran motorcycle on a day trip to Brighton does have its challenges, as rider and curator.
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