Private Trip

He wasn’t wearing a flat cap,

and I was sporting an old tin pot helmet,

sat astride a 1929 Model 18 Norton

in a queue of similar machines lined up along

the Ramsey Promenade waiting for my turn

to sprint the eighth of a mile from a 

standing start. The bright sun made it hot

and sticky in old leathers, and anticipation

was turning to boredom as I nursed the engine

in a reluctant idle hoping I wouldn’t oil the plug

before my moment of glory; my concentration

suffocated in a haze of Castrol ‘R’ infused

exhaust fumes. And turning my head to the left,

towards the sea front, I noticed in my peripheral

view, a small figure ambling along the pavement

and drawing my attention until the moment

our eyes met whereupon he tripped. Perfectly.

And passed out of view behind a kiosk.

And in the few moments it took my brain

to recognise the loveable clown,

I missed my green light, in a Pitkinesque vignette,

and forfeited the first run and had to go around again.

But my own very private performance

had been worth more than any Manx laurels,

and I wouldn’t be caring if anyone laughed at me.

John H Davies

16th February 2011