GRAHAM FIELD
Overland motorcycle travel author, strong desires and infinite dreams

 

The salt and grit have washed away

With the April showers, and now it’s May.

The roads are clear of the rust inciters

But what left behind ain’t good for riders.

Bloody pot holes everywhere,

I’ve gotta weave like I’m impaired.

And if my wheel goes down a crater

I’ll get a puncture sooner or later.

The tyre flattens as the air escapes

That’s another hole I clearly hate.

Riding off road there’s much more room

To a void the depressions of doom.

But hit a rock and the casings bleed

The life blood oil the engine needs.

A breech that causes devastation

It’s not a breather for ventilation.

A desperate need for liquid metal

Before the haemorrhage is fatal.

Then there’s the hose that shouldn’t break

Contains the fluid for clutch, fuel, water, oil or brake.

Radiator dry and the engine’s lagging

Or the hydraulic clutch has started dragging.

Lose your fuel and the engine stops,

Brake fluid low and the bike does not.

Another potential tragic leak

The result of which is always bleak.

But the void that is sadder still

Is the loss that you cannot refill.

When a friend leaves for the afterlife

I question my direction and buy another bike.

In the massive chasm that echoes grief

I need more bikes ‘cus life is brief.

That’s why a sale is not income

Just a gap in the shed for another one.

They look so good just sitting there

And that distracts me from my despair.

A crack in a tyre or a phone screen

The day was better before they were seen.

Or the test ride with a few choice sockets

And you rip your seat with the screwdriver in ya back pocket.

Or opening ya panniers after a wet ride

And everything is soaked inside.

When your filter has let in dirt

And there’s a draft in armpit of your favourite T-shirt.

Your ground sheet looks like it’s got woodworm
And the uneven ground is way too firm.

And you waste your breath on a Therm-a-rest

That’s got more holes than your mozzi net.

In the toe of your thermal sock,

Or the condom you’ve just taken off,

Got a toothache, need a filling,

Fell through the hammock when you were chillin’.

If life on the road resembles Swiss cheese

It’s guaranteed not to please.

Find me a hole that will give me joy

‘Cus most of them just annoy.

I’m looking out, my eyes are peeled

They’ll be no good until they’re filled.

One last thing that I get confused

As my Bulgarian lessons are underused -

“Dupka” means “hole” and “dupay” mean “bum”

And it gets me in trouble when I say the wrong one.

So holes are my nemesis and that is that

But when referring to battery, spot or landscape; I don’t want flat.

I don’t even like polos or ponchos that much either.