Ah memories, they flick
between the pages of my
mind. Or my books, if you want
to be pedantic; either way,
there are lots of them and
most of the best ones have
something to do with
motorcycles – those damn
lunatic machines that have an
uncanny habit of drilling deep
into the root system of
whatever weird nervous
energy it is that fuels the soul.
I got bitten bad by the
motorcycle bug almost 20
years ago when my good
friend Richard arrived at
Oxford station on his 535cc
Yamaha Virago. Rich was and
remains a very close friend,
but I never once felt jealous of
him until I saw him sat astride
that motorcycle, radiating the
kind of natural elan that
reduces by degrees as the
wheel-count rises.
Memories
Like the Corners of My Mind
By Kevin Turner
That is where it all began; the
epicentre as it were of a journey,
both literal and metaphorical, that
would come to define so many
aspects of my life and would lead to
the penning of this column - no
doubt to the great dismay of many
readers who understandably
enjoyed Graham Field’s regular
contributions to this magazine.
"still struggling to clear the
rancid fumes of countless
Russian juggernauts "
But Graham is gone, for now at least,
and let’s hear no more about that
freakish, tattooed heavy metal
lunatic with a penchant for
Jägermeister and a good nose for
mischief. I have spent enough hours
sat beside Graham at various shows
and signing sessions to know that he
belongs on the road, far away from
decent people. It’s why God made
motorcycles; to keep the freaks
moving, like giddy flotsam on the
waves of a great ocean; heaven
forbid it ever reaches the shore.