Francis Meyrick

It’s early in the morning. It’s quiet outside. Such a hush. A thoughtful moment. The calm before the storm. Even the birds are hardly stirring. There’s a slight mist. The wisps, those faint threads, that embrace the fields and the trees. I love the peace.
I’m going down the road.
And I’m taking my bike. My 1300. I might be going quick. Maybe a hundred. Or more.

Where?
I have no idea. I shall probably just point her nose into the rising sun. And go like hell.
I might not please the neighbors. Sorry. It will only last a few seconds. Just like Life. And then I’ll be gone.

Why?
I feel like riding. I want the wind to tug at my leathers. I want the bike to talk to me. Through the handlebars. I want to feel the tires beating along the road, kicking up gravel and dust. I want to listen to that melody of my Vance and Hines Straight Shots bellowing defiance. And see the world go by. And smell the damp grass.

Who is going with you?
You are. You are with me, my friend. See that bend coming up? Lean with me, into the turn. Good. Never try and lean opposite. That will make us unsteady. Just go with me.
See? Easy, huh? Do you want to try another one?

Why do you call me ” friend “, when you’ve never met me?
Oh, but I have, many times. There is much we have shared together. And places we have seen. I have felt your hand on my arm, and your wise counsel reverberate through my mind. Have we not both tasted defeat? Have we not both felt the weariness that comes of long suffering futility? Have we not both gazed at the stars, and the setting sun, and shadows of autumn, as they grow longer and longer?

But I still don’t know you.
I think you do. For I have laid my simple soul bare. You have traveled with me, on long, quiet walks along the beach. You have roared down quiet country roads with me, on my old Triumph motorcycle. You have leaped out of airplanes with me, on long free falls, plummeting through clouds, and piercing through ephemeral castles in the sky. You have looped with me in my old biplane, as I foolishly taught myself aerobatics. You have fought alongside me, when I arrested a would be rapist, tasting the fury and the primitive savagery flowing through my veins as a primitive fury overcame me. You have followed Jeremy, as he struggled to absorb the intensity of battle, and the sensitivity of his true feelings. You have smirked at the young rebel suffering his disastrous first meeting with his girlfriend’s parents. You have felt sadness, and compassion, when you heard the fear of the young British soldier, screaming in terror as the burning petrol from the Molotov cocktail enveloped him. And you say you don’t know me?

I say you do. For in me, you see yourself. In my yearning, in my searching, in my anger, my frustration, my dreams, my longing and my foolishness… you know your self.
I make no claim to be a good writer. I don’t write to be published. I write, from an overwhelming urge to tell a story. For the sake of the story. To be able to say, one day:

“I drank the cup dry. I got my ticket’s worth. I rode the bus. I explored the world. I thought. I dreamed. I fought. I was defeated. I stood up again. I was knocked down again. And again. And still I stood up. And, boy! What a story I think I can tell… “

Ride with me, my friend. Walk with me. Fly with me. Dream with me. Long with me. Be my reader, and I will tell you a story. Be my listener, and I will paint you a picture.
Be my partner, writer and reader, and, together, we shall create such outrageous scribbling, such inane doodling, such an intensity of feeling, that our humanity will be beyond dispute. Let the critics roar. Let the cynics sneer. Let the cold hearted, unfeeling ones, remain haughty and aloof. Who even cares.

It is you, my friend reader. And I.

We… shall ride.

F.M.
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on December 28, 2008, 11:01 am