In memory she's pretty and young,
Dressed in Land Army girls dress
(Where my memory starts to fail
False memory fills in the rest),
Fresh faced, full breasted, shirt
Sleeves rolled, her arms half bare
Talking and joking and smoking,
Smoke drifting through blonde hair,
Sitting astride her big Indian bike,
An expensive bike, an usual sight,
But it's burned in my mind
So I'm sure I have it right.
Embossed on its petrol tank,
In Eagle feathered head dress,
A proud Comanche chief
In paintwork so vivid and fresh.
Straight from the cover of the comic
I'd been holding there in my hand
Imagined I was a brave, member
Of his defiant renegade band.
She was chatting with my brother,
A full seven years older than me,
And a few more of the village lads,
Him and maybe another two or three.
It's about nineteen fifty,
Such a very different world,
Very rarely then did you see
A motorbike riding girl.
Then kicking that bike into life
She was off and riding away
I don't think I saw her again
After that one very special day.
I knew who she was,
Still remember her name
A farmer's young daughter
A tomboy of local fame.
More than sixty years later
She sprang back to mind.
Browsing a gallery
And what did I find:
A reproduction poster,
A girl on an Indian Machine,
Those years rolled away
As though they've never been.she
And that blonde girl my mind
So casually brought back to life
Did she, in time, become
A conventional housewife
And what became of the bike
She'd ridden with style and flair,
On which she'd lavished
So much time, effort and care?
Did she maybe take it
For one last, long loving, ride
Before saying good bye to the machine
That brought so much joy and pride.
That poster now hangs on a friend's wall
A present we knew she'd like
For, in her younger days we knew
She'd ridden her own Indian bike.
