The biker poem

A long time ago, in a galaxy ... No, that's wrong. But a long time ago, when I lived in Midcalder and was working at the British Geological Survey, I got myself a moped, then a small motorbike, and then a medium-sized commuter bike - a Honda 175. So I was a biker, but not the leather-clad, tattoo-covered Hell's Angel type. I used it to get to work in the morning, and to get myself home in the evening. Most of the time I enjoyed it. I didn't like winter biking, especially in some of the cold, snowy winters we had in the 1980s. I recall driving it very slowly, with both boots sliding along the ice to keep myself upright. And I didn't like my crash, when I hit a stretch of unlit roadworks near East Calder, came off and broke my collar bone. But I loved biking on summer weekends, on country roads, the bendier the better. The road along Loch Lubnaig was my favourite, and I've written about that elsewhere.

I used to take our eldest son to school on the pillion, until I had a puncture one morning. I controlled it, having had earlier punctures, but when I told Jane about it she said, 'That's it! You're going to learn to drive a car; you're not putting my son's life in danger.' So I did, and somehow the bike didn't get used much after that. I gave it away in exchange for two bottles of wine - it wasn't worth anything more by then - and I haven't driven a motor bike since. I'm still licensed though, and some nice summer days I look back with nostalgia, and I dream about the very real pleasures of biking.

This poem was written in 1995, and published in my second collection, Seven Senses (Diehard, 2000).


The thing itself

After rain the road flashes
like a metal river.

Bends are rounded
by a shift of weight,
an eye for line, a lean;
routes unroll under pegged feet
straddling wheels.

Wind is helmet shake
and visor flutter;
head wobbles as speed twists up.
Poles flicker past
in a chuff of air;
engine notes blatter from walls
or are sucked silent in gaps.

No space for thought,
no time for calculation.
Wish into action
as action fast-forwards life.
Spray fizzles,
bees bullet the head,
smells assail, ripen, and are gone.
Between machine and rider
no decisions, destinations.



Copyright © Colin Will, 2000