The Old Racer
When the Tourist Trophy race
begins each year, he morphs
into his favorite chair
and turns on the telly.
Holding armrest handles
complete with imaginary helmet
and gloves--his glossy-eyed,
demonic expression reappears.
He calls out each bend and turn by name:
Bray Hill, Union Mills--a left-right hander,
Fans cheer him on at each turn,
photo shoots await him, girls gather
for his autograph.
Then up the pub with his mates
for a pint of Guinness.
Like old helmet foam and a pair
of rotting leathers--his legacy
crumbles more each year.
No one would ever recognize him,
but for the wild look that dashes
from the depths of his easy chair.
I was so glad to find your site. My husband is PK Davies, an old bike racer
from the UK. I recent wrote this poem for him when he was watching the TT
this year. Hope you can use it.
Karen Kelsay Davies