Two wheels my ass
They say "Two wheels is better
than four." But if I asked my ass,
he would disagree.
My ass knows best, after all. He's in
close contact with the bike all the time.
At the start of the journey, it's all
"Oohs" and "Aahs", but later on
it's all "Running, screaming and
dying." Just like "Jurassic Park."
I park my ass on the saddle.
No complaints there. Fire up
the bike, twist the throttle. My ass
feels the vibrations, I am one with
my machine. And my ass.
Hit the road! Ass off the saddle for
the speed humps, back on for the sharp
left turn, left cheek, right cheek, both
cheeks. The road is dry, sun is shining,
I'm bold as brass, me and my ass.
250 miles later, it's a different story.
It's raining, I'm sticking to the saddle,
my ass feels like I'm sitting on broken
glass. Give me a paddle! It's no fun
when there's no sun.
As the rain pours down, and the traffic
piles up, I wonder about the veracity
of "two wheels good, four wheels bad."
obviously they weren't riding with me.
I am dichotomous now. My rear wants
no part of it, and I have to concede.
Motorway services, a soulless smile
and a coffee, while I persuade my ass
to carry on. As stubborn as a mule, he
refuses.
Praying for salvation, I wonder if God
made a mistake when he created Gluteus
Maximus. The gladiatorial appellation
hardly fits, except for their final words.
"Ave Caesar. Morituri te salutante."
My ass is dead meat.