|

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, Governors Bridge…
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
|