Another Day, Another Ride

Another Day, Another Ride

A late October Afternoon,
I point the Road King out of town
It’s only 55 degrees
I have my stocking cap pulled down

I head for the curves of Portneuf road
Rolling south at a leisurely pace
The chill in the air intensifies
The wind tingling on my face

I turn onto Marsh Creek Road
And give the throttle a twist
No traffic, I ride past farms and kids
All riding should be like this.

At McAmmon I pull in at the truck-stop
Two bikers from Logan are there
We talk of our rides, of rides to come
Of the clean and crisp fall air

They take off and I go inside
Come back out with a cup of joe
I sit there soaking up afternoon sun
Beneath mountains now dusted with snow

Two more motorcycles rumble in
A sport bike and a new black Fat Boy
The new owner grinning from ear to ear
Just a hundred miles on his brand new toy

We chat for a while then I take off,
Turning back on old US 91
Three more bikes are on my tail
Soon we’re rolling four as one

At Inkom the riders pull up alongside
An old boy on an Ultra glide
Grins as we sit at the stop sign,
“Hell of a fine day for a ride.”

I turn left and they turn right
We wave; we’re all heading for home
Another good ride, another good day
For me, another road poem.

Winter will come, it’s in the air
Snow and Ice may keep us inside
But know that there will always be
Another day, another great ride

Copyright 2007 Bill “uglicoyote” Davis

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Bikers

I suppose this poem might piss some people off. se la vie


Bikers

People ask “what makes a biker?”

I hear that question a lot

I’m not sure there is an exact answer

but I’m pretty sure what they’re not

They’re probably not those hardtail hardheads

who park their rides in front of the bar,

whose asses are parked on a barstool inside

but whose bikes never travel too far.

They’re not those fat-cat wannabes,

trailers hauling their custom bikes

from rally to rally all year long

they don’t know what real riding is like.

Tattoos sure don’t make you a biker,

although some have tats, some do not.

Expensive black leather isn’t enough

It’s something that just can’t be bought.

Do all biker’s have to ride Harleys?

I love my Harley, but that’s just not true

I’ve ridden with guys on all kinds of bikes

who were “bikers” through and through.

Are all one per-centers bikers?

I know that many of them ride free

But some of them are just assholes,

just another kind of wannabe.

To me real bikers are riders

out there with their wheels on the highway

putting on the miles, living in the ride,

on every back-road and byway.

Instead of hiding under the overpass,

right on through that storm they glide.

They know that trailers are made for boats,

that it doesn’t have to be sunny to ride.

A biker will stop to help you out

if you’re down along the way

The brand you ride doesn’t matter a damn

They might need your help some day.

To me it’s all about the ride,

about living out there on the highway,

about rolling with a few good friends,

but you don’t have to do it my way.

If you think its all about the tats,

about the chrome, the leather, the bars,

you can go ahead and live that life,

but you might as well drive a car.

You don’t need a nice motorcycle

to get all rowdy and drunk,

to dress up like a pirate and

fight with some dumb punk.

Me, I’ll be out there on that highway,

making that Road King roll.

I bought it to ride, and I feel deep inside

I’m a biker, right down to my soul.

Copyright 2007 Bill “uglicoyote” Davis

Bruce Arnold

Bruce Arnold, the editor/owner of LDRLongDistanceRider.com has written one of my favorite poems, I Ride Mine. He also has some related merchandise on sale here, including a nice wall plaque of this poem. Bruce along with fellow biker Ray Henke, the editor of Motorcyclists Against Dumb Drivers, team up on Bruce-n-Ray’s Biker Forum where Bruce occasionally commits random acts of poetry. Poetry like this:

A Biker Funeral (dedicated to “Trip”)

Sunday morning early comes
This sweltering summer’s day;
Chrome and coffee polished off
As bike and rider wake,

And rumble off to clubhouse for
A changing of the brew;
Black vests in formation–fast
and tight–a loud tribute.

Iron horses, hundreds strong,
Come thund’ring through the gate;
Sleeping souls on notice, fallen
Biker nears his fate.

A mile of gleaming metal lines
The circle and the park;
Out of saddles, boots hit brick
And make for chapel’s heart.

Members of the Club stand post,
Proud brothers in the wind;
Shaded eyes the tears disguise,
And loss they feel within.

Friends and family pay respects
To biker and his mate;
Praises made and prayers raised,
Blues legends resonate.

Final words and kisses, then
The pipes’ Amazing Grace;
Souls of bike and rider seek
Eternal resting place.

Sunday morning early comes
This sweltering summer’s day;
One more rider, Heaven bound,
Roars through the Pearly Gates.

Written by Bruce Arnold, 2004