When I used to jog

The last time I remember was along

mud-sand walls, buff, sizzling tink-tink-tink

not too fast, they can’t shoot for sour

batshit, I ran, bowing under the weight

boots tight, mags full

hands sweated onto parkerized dust

“C’mon, Joey!” and he laughed that way

like a kid, immortally cheerful, fantasy

blue-eyed love doll to the Kurds

and I could run forever, leading Joey on

but that time before, at Yakima

Firing Center, shadowing our supported

unit across domestic dust, singing

jiving, belting it out with my back

tight, pumping knees high into pain

threshold, I knew I could never

keep it up, never be so strong

or ever fast enough, it was

too late for me already.

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  1. I just read your story in The Devil Can Ride and loved it! You are among my favorite writers about bikes, along with Peter Egan(He’s not as much of a bad ass but very funny).I hope to see your new book in print soon and continue to look forward to your column in Motorcyclist.

    Love Teresa

  2. Thanks, Teresa. Look for more in Motorcyclist soon, including pieces filed from Israel and Italy. Happy riding to you.


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