She was loud, black, and beautiful.
A thoroughbred with extra fuel, in a racing tank with a Ball-ache seat; her ‘Commando’ logos pinstriped, neat.
Clip on ‘bars with little lock, suspension firm as Eskdale rock; throbbing while she stood at rest her burnished motor Norton’s best?
 
He was young barely seventeen but even Rogers’ Jim-jams were ‘Fastback’ green: Test passed, “Pissed…!” first time: that shite extracting friend of mine.
“Jump right on!” he’d smirked one day, my hero’s gesture friendly play, the nodding bike on rocking stand just ticking over, sounding bland…
 
Seeming like a grand idea, I swallowed what I’d thought was fear, settling on the padded strip behind my bony elder’s hip. His hump…for racing, perfect, fine, for two less so with balls like mine. A dropped clutch but another name for the anguished howl of a youth in pain.
 
First gear was a revelation; the pillion fearing swift castration, Roger’s rapid forward motion the cause of screams and some commotion.
‘Second’, ‘third’, then into top. Throttle jammed against its stop, the ‘Combat blasting up Drigg road with scant regard for fainting loads as snarling Mega’s drowned my shouts and screams for mercy ringing out.
 
‘Coffin’ corner came too fast; the pillion howling in the blast of wind, speed, and miles per hour all adding to that Norton’s power.
Backing off with brakes applied; the neutered rose and heaved a sigh. Relief though, short, the time it takes, to doubt the choice of Lockheed’s brakes when slam, bang, he having fun Roger braked, and clenched his bum.
 
Power on, pressure off: the neutered groaned a sickly cough, though battered, bruised and gripping tight as more than Metzlers shrieked in fright.
Over, further than I’d ever been; two mirrored faces one gone green. Grass, passing by an ear, adding to the sense of fear but Roger, fearing village tales: mistaking pleas for laughter’s gales.
 
Spurred on, his metal hot, young Hotspur gave it all he’d got; dropping flat upon the tank to make his  pillion’s undies rank. Knees splayed, legs apart, I guessed  it wasn’t just a fart with both my ankles overhead I’d known for certain we were dead…

I was quiet, pale, and in a state
as I said goodbye to my mongrel mate; ball’s squashed and head in bits, from too much speed and nervous shits.
Shaking in my size ten boots, I remember Roger’s manly hoots; skidding off down Memory Lane
and my wrote off jeans with their Combat stains!