An early start that morning
Saw us first upon the site
Waved in by bearded men in yellow vests
And I had my choice of parking
Stopping right there at the front
And backing up the scoot to take a rest
I heard with quiet contentment
The rumbling thunder wave
As the other early bikers did arrive
Rolling up the main street
Guided through the barricade
Jostling in packs of four and five
The Harleys sing their throaty note
All polished paint and chrome
And are guided by their owners to the curb
The heavy, bearded solid men
In leathers jeans and boots
Form groups of mates to catch the latest blurb
And sports bike packs of ricers,
Whine as racing up the road
With deeper notes from Duckys, Poms and Beulls
Like nimble darting tropical fish
in an aquarium of road
Forming into rainbow coloured schools.
They ride in fast and eager
Revving engines a little more
Than needed, revelling in the noise
With gifts for all the have-not kids
Of every make and kind
Every bike it seems adorned with many toys
There's tinsel on the glamorous
The Goldwings and the like
Just polished steel and custom paint the rest
And though my bikes not tarted up
(She's quite a humble ride)
She's had a wash and's looking quite her best.
I take the time to wander
Down the rows of resting mounts
Admiring the many makes and styles
And get a closer look at those
That have the stuff that counts.
The ones that show the marks of many miles
I stop by an old shovel
That's quite tidy for her age
And take the time to roam it with my eye
Noting mod's and brand new paint
But a little disappointed by
The bolt on crap I spy.
I chat to an old Vietnam vet
On a bullet that's his ride
A man who values service that's been done
And his bikes a testimony
To his brothers memories
Its always there at bike shows and on runs
I see the brand new trumpys
Next to their old timer kin
Rekindling thoughts of empire long ago
And a matchless that's still going
Ands as shiny as a pin.
Well maintained but just a little slow
When officials notify us
That its time to make a start
We hurriedly return to waiting mounts
And I roll up to the starting line
Right behind the marshals bike
The third in line, I notice, as I count
The rumbling of our engines
Is a symphony of notes
From every brand of bike 'twas every made
And we head off in a mighty pack
Each mindful of the rest
At a pace I must admit was rather staid
An escort of the local heat
Blocked side streets as we went
Ensuring that the cagers were discreet
And the newsmen took their pictures
And the cameras they rolled
And admiring people massed upon the street
The sight out on the highway
Brought a smile onto my face
As the bikes behind me stretched right out of site
And we formed an iron serpent
With a thousand metal coils
With a diamond head and new found tonnage rights
We rumbled to a carpark
Where the salvos had their trucks
And began to fill em up with Christmas cheer
And I wandered through the carpark
Renewing all the ties
With the guys you only see this time of year
They had some politician's wife
On a stage with microphone
Telling us how wonderful we are
And how were all big softies
She can reckon what she likes
Cos she's the sort who turned up in a car
The trucks were overflowing
With the toys the bikers brought
A gesture to children of the poor
And I knew that was the meaning
For the riders who had come
Not good PR or crawling to some bore!
And when the run was over
And I aimed my scoot for home
I realised why each year its such a hit
For though we are not kids no more
Have grown to working boys
It's still a fact that all who ride
That bikers love their toys.
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