Your photograph is radiant, distinctive, glorying in your new jeans and leather jacket. Seventeen and taking on the world in your Rocker gear. The memory of the engine throb, bursting upon the consciousness as you opened the throttle on the long straight road and learned to fly.
The smell of Methanol mix and leather stays with me to this day.
The knowledge of parental disapproval and hazy images of teenage angst, coming full circle and buzzing still. memories that travel the road of time, out of shape and coloured by the encompassing damp of passing life converge on the Salt Box Cafe at Biggin Hill.
You may have been seventeen but you were no new penny. Bruised by circumstance, angered by confusion, hungry for freedom, the worm was on the turn. Too long the boot prints of treachery and stupidity had shadowed the idyllic cocoon, now the drifts of colour were permeating the understanding and the glittering grin of survival greeted a new day.
The Amber Raven of my Tiger 70 kick-started into life, climbing out of the pit, the wind blowing the cobwebs asunder with giant golden wings of promise.
The worm was dead.
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