Greets, everyone.

The other day, as I was visiting the vintage motorcycle forum to which I belong, I encountered some prose that had been written and shared on the forum by someone whose web acquaintance I'd had the pleasure of making a little while ago.  During that time, he and I have had a few pleasant exchanges - mainly bike related - but one or two were a little more personal.  I'd previously shared with him what I do avocationally, and that I also happened to enjoy writing, and perhaps one or two of our more personal exchanges centered less on bikes, and more on our "personhood", if you will.  So it was with that brief sense of my new friend that I was not at all surprised to read what he'd written and shared with the rest of us on the bike forum. 

His initial intent will be guite clear when you read the piece, I think.  Though the work's outermost skin speaks of men and machines, and of the bond among those men - those friends - any of us who has ever had one or more close friendships, forged in commonality, will find themselves reflexively peeling back the layers as they read... morphing the writers message into a shape that echos tales of their own friends, their own fond recollections, their own loves, their own losses, their own ultimately solitary humanity.  The piece speaks simply, yet eloquently, of not only the passage of time, but of the value of friendship as an antidote to our congenital and terminal oneness, and how both time and friendship shape our oneness as water and wind shape stone.  We are all sculpted by our relationships.  To the extent that we can, we should all strive to cultivate relationships that will work us with the gentlest hands and keenest eye.

Thank you, Hamamatsu. 

Enjoy this beautiful prose.

TC
~ ~

We Were Bikers... My Buddies and Me.

We were bikers back in the day, the 1950's is when we started....my buddies and me. We rode Triumphs, BSAs, Nortons, Harleys and Indians and we argued who had the best and fastest motorcycle. We imitated James Dean with our white tee shirts with rolled up sleeves, and we wore black jackets that made our mothers worry... my buddies and me. We rode hard, we drank beer and we worked on our own bikes, we were independent and free. We were straight and tall, we held our heads high...my buddies and me.

As we became men, some of us married, most of us went to work, some went to college, and sadly some of us went off to war...my buddies and me. We raised our children and supported our wives while younger men rode their motorcycles in our stead. We were gallant and trusted men...my buddies and me. We never wavered, we never quit, we always did what we had to do, we did what men do...my buddies and me.

As we aged and our children had children, we once again turned to motorcycles to fill the void that was in us all these years. We rode with dim eyes, gray hair and sore knees, but we rode together again straight and tall...my buddies and me. We rode Harleys, and we rode Indians, Victorys and metric bikes and we argued who had the best motorcycle just as before...my buddies and me.

Now I am in the winter of my years and I sit and wonder what happened to my buddies and their motorcycles...because you see, my buddies are gone, and now it's just me.

~ Hamamatsu