To A Friend Travelling A Rough Road Poem by Gary Witt

People in their cars do not think this way,
But when the wheels of a motorcycle roll
Onto a road freshly milled, stripped, and grooved,
Handlebars become animated and rebellious,
Jerking in spasms of madness and fear.

Small sharp stones will fly,
Flipped up by the truck ahead
To rattle through fenders,
And bounce off a helmet or a face.

A heart will rise, struggling to escape its cavity.
A mind will think, “I’m going to fall.”

The only asset left to one is a vertical posture,
Maintained by the eerie, tenuous momentum
Of wheels trapped in scars that stretch for
Untold miles between flagmen and orange cones.

Soon, though, soon
The fresh new pavement,
Black and beckoning,
Appears on the right,
A huge step up, separating
The rough from the smooth.

I know you are worried,
But you will do fine.
Don’t grip the bars too tightly;
Let them play, let your control
Become more subtle;
Give yourself room
To take the lip at a wider angle
And at the right moment,
The one you decide,
Push firmly to the right,
Stand on the pegs,
Knees bent, head up—
Always keep your head up.
You will go where you look
So look to where you want to be;
And let the bike follow your brain.

This is a skill to be learned
Gently, gently, gently.