Outside a rec hall dance
in Devon, a Brit invites this Yankee
yardbird in a Harley hat to drink
homemade rum. My hangover clears
in winter air whipped by a Triumph’s
rush through roads carved
into moors. As an enclosed double-
seater sidecar rocks my new
friend’s wife and three daughters—
five, seven, and nine—café
racers wheelie past. After
kilometers, harried, the Scottish mom
punches Plexiglas; I’m obliged.
Better than a tilt-a-whirl, the sidecar
bucks while English uplands scroll
across windows. The girls clamber
front to back, climb their guest
in a joyful rumble. At a barn converted
to a pub, we eat pasties and drink
Guinness. Beneath a quilt of kids,
I doze as we cycle into dusk.
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