Rillington Motorbike Club
It was the era of Mods versus Rockers.
Scooters, Ben Sherman, and Parka coats,
Motorbikes, Levi’s, and slicked-back hair.
Pumped up teens, who thought they were hard,
Fighting in lumps on the promenade,
During sunny sixties bank holidays.
Rillington, my village, was solidly greaser,
Not a single scooter was ever seen.
We had a Motorbike Club of our very own,
Where lads picked tarmac out of their jeans.
Whilst, notionally, a Bike Club member,
A few obstructions stood in my way,
“There’s nothing there between you and the road,”
Said dad, with the air of a man who knew,
A chap with a definitive point of view.
“He fell off his Triumph every weekend,”
Was what my Uncle Harry had to say.
Motorbike ownership, then, was a forlorn task.
Was a leather jacket, though, too much to ask?
My friends at school all called themselves Mods.
Affiliation was more complex than I thought.
New idols challenged my local gods.
I was caught in the crossfire of no-man’s land,
When mods and rockers’ battles were fought.
And that is the story of my life.
My allegiances would come and go,
Playing both ends towards the middle
When I was faced with trouble or strife,
A man who likes to hedge his bets, undecided,
About people or places to loath or like.
One of Life’s Motorbike Club members,
Who never bought a leather jacket
Or, more crucially, a motorbike!
It wouldn’t take much of a detective to see
A lack of authenticity,
Or a want of commitment to the cause,
When my friends say, “Let’s go!”
I will press ‘Pause.’