When I was nineteen years old,
typically rash, stupid and bold,
I went through a phase called the double ‘A’.
My automotive adolescence so to say.
As a compromise between power and money,
I was given the Jawa two-fifty
Yes, the one with the miserable fuel economy.
Though the four figure petrol bills,
gave my father nasty chills,
the machine gave his son amazing thrills.
The bike was built for mad, suicidal speed,
and that was my strongest need.
Under me my Jawa,
the road was my virtual Suzuka.
You feel an incomparable high,
when on the road in harmony you fly.
The bike’s an extension of your body, you two are one.
You think about changing gear and its done.
Roaring into a corner you come,
the wind in your ears a loud hum.
Physics says you have to fall, and gravity does try,
but you make poor old
he rolls over and over in his grave,
wondering why, according to his laws you don’t behave.
Your confidence soars
Louder the bike roars.
The throttle is like a batten in your hand,
the piston and the crank the best orchestra in the land
and its Wagner’s opera to your mind,
the scream of the engine near the red line.
The adrenalin in your blood makes it boil,
but….on the next corner there’s spilt diesel oil….
Then comes the fall,
with a shower of sparks, bike, you and all.
You hit the tar at a hundred and one,
dragged along with the bike, remember you two are one,
but now it isn’t so much fun.
You have burns due to friction,
and pain has reached a new dimension.
You are laid up in bed for quite a while
and now it is old
