Moto Haiku – 50Words on being a Biker
The subtitle references the honored traditional Japanese poetry of seventeen syllables in three lines of five, seven, and five, speaking of life, and incorporating the natural world. Everyone knows that Harley riders can’t leave what Milwaukee produces alone without modifying it. My ‘haiku’ are modified to be exactly fifty words.
This collection is available in print and digital from the MagCloud platform click here or by contacting me directly.
A sampling of these works are below.
# # #
Sunday night, a four hour ride from New York to Boston on a cold, dark October night, all alone save for a full moon in the clear sky. The rumble of my V-twin underneath and the ribbon of red taillights ahead makes 80mph feel like a dance along the asphalt.
# # #
Boylston Street Boston, the end of a long day, Harley parked at the curb. Climb on, fire the motor up and two blocks later, cabbie yells my taillight is dead. A flashlight and duct tape retrieved from a saddlebag and the problem is solved. MacGyver has got nothing on me.
# # #
Cold November morning, dressed properly for the ride to work; parked with four others. Left early, donned leathers again curbside. Riding north, angry clouds heaped up in picturesque disorder, evening sun playing peek-a-boo, illuminating the landscape with diagonal rays, rows of white caps pushed by easterly winds rush to the beach.
# # #
Weekday, 5PM, between parked motorcycles on Newbury St, one a big Harley and the other a sleek Italian sport bike, we huddle around tools on the pavement, working together on a footpeg of the import. Within minutes, repair complete we are shaking hands, smiling, wishing each other a safe ride.
# # #
For some, the sounds of singing birds, feeling sand under foot, the scent of a freshly cut cornfield brings peace. Bikers enjoy the heat coming off the motor on a cold morning, the vibration of a powerful motor through the handlebars, the chirping of car alarms as we ride past.
# # #
Sunday after Thanksgiving, another 400mile round trip Boston to NYS and back. On the return, the sky overhead looks like a gray velour blanket with rips here and there giving way to stripes of deep clear blue above. Cold riding through a landscape of monochromatic dull brown leafless skeleton trees.
# # #
The well worn scuff on the left toe of a boot signifies experience from years of shifting gears on a two wheeled power machine. Such a sight is akin to spotting a similarly colored coat of a fine race horse from across a paddock. You know another of your breed.
# # #
Forecast abruptly changes, percentage of precipitation jumps to 70%. I leave the office into a driving rain that Noah would recognize. Trying to beat the worst of it, I fire up my bike. An hour later, soaked to the core, I am smiling; fresh rain water tastes amazing at 50mph.
Seasons change and so does my ride. After many years on American steel, with the rumbling underneath, the roar of the exhaust, switching to an Import requires many adjustments. Being able to hear the sounds of the incoming surf nearby while stopped at a traffic light is a welcome one.
# # #
Dreaded call comes at 9pm, kickstand up by 10, and into a 39degree November night. Hit the highway and crank that throttle. Three tanks of gas, four cups of coffee, six hours and five states later, I’m fifteen minutes too late to hold The Old Man’s hand as he dies.
# # #
Spring has to be the toughest time of year. Temptation and frustration come in equal doses. Cold as hell one day, warm enough to ride the next. Wrenching and polishing give way to maps and planning. Collected brochures and newspaper clippings tease, offering promises of destinations in the days ahead.
# # #
Late spring early evening riding the Interstate, a moon plays peek-a-boo from behind trees as the roadway rises and falls with the terrain; a large yellow orb climbing up a cold blue sky. The rearview mirror reflects a golden sunset behind me; it’s warm glow contrasting the low temps ahead.
# # #
Late night meal of diner fare, one last cup of coffee before you head out and motor over to a nearby club to enjoy some modern jazz. In the end, the best sounds come from the wind as it rushes past and the tones from your exhaust as you downshift.
# # #
Time to splurge on a vacation, but don’t want to give up the thrill of the ride. Motor into a far away urban jungle for the weekend to be catered to. The 4Star valet service doesn’t know what to do with two chrome wheels. You show them how it’s done.
# # #
Annual gathering of the Tribes, an event since before we were born. Sometimes summer heat, sometimes pouring rain, that’s the gamble in June. Lakeside parade, miles of shiny chrome, painted steel and black leather. Music, parties, Brothers and Sisters; reunion time for some, initiation time for others. Memories for all.