A while ago a mate of mine asked for some music mix CDs for his car because I am always listening to music. I had a bit of a mix already up my sleeve, inspired by the drive I did from Lossie to Mark's place a while back.

 

If you remember my car cut out 50 miles into 340 and I ended up driving between 9pm and 2am. It was a bit of a dark and oppressive stormy night, but I made the decision attack rather than to retreat, I drove the world alone that night, called up a sequence of electronic songs on my Ipod, turned the Hicas on, sat in a race seating position, and pulled my lap strap tightly to the best facsimile of a race harness I could manage. I was never going that fast, but never going slowly. My average speed would have been whatever I was allowed, my momentum unstoppable. The thin fog acting as reassurance that I could waft past the thin scattering of lorries I encountered that night, without a lift of the accelerator. The HICAS proved a wise choice, as it converted a Scandinavian flick during the avoidance of a deer, into a stable four wheel side step, not unlike the quick foot work performed upon the late spot of a puddle, when walking the pavement.

 

I rested briefly in Berwick Macdonalds and was joined by a traffic car, a bit like the famous WW1 game of football we enjoyed a Big Mac together at midnight, before a knowing nod was exchanged as we saddled up again, the truce over. That drive was one I will never forget, I used only 2/3 of a tank, driving at pace over 340 miles, my brakes ice cold, my car was grinning with me as I crept onto Mum and Dad's drive. The silence restored, a pat on the roof, the dark sky beginning to lighten again behind me, the car ticking cool beside me, instantly 17 again.

 

With that as a context, I did him a CD, largely electronic music I like, titled ESP, (electronic stability programme). With this poem (below) written inside the cover by way of instruction as to how it should be enjoyed. As I told him,

 

"Think of these as tasting notes for a fine wine."

 

 

 

 

 

The poem of the petrolhead

 

Tonight will be one of those drives,

that produces both stories you tell,

and memories that will forever be yours alone.

 

 

The world has gone sodium orange,

softly diffused by the low dew point,

which even if not seen can be heard resonating through your air box.

 

The world is a playground.

Few people know there is another 2 o'clock in the day,

but you do.

 

it's skewed reality a familiar place to be,

if the world is a playground then the game is cops and robbers,

as they are the only two teams playing tonight.

 

Your senses are heightened with caution,

sharp pulses of hot adrenaline dance round your ears,

batting away the dull fog brought on by the early hour.

 

A simple commute becomes an adventure.

A self imposed challenge,

a podium stands at your destination populated only by your past present and future selves.

 

A muttered piece to the wheel settles your affairs in case you're on the losing side tonight,

but you never have been before,

so you press play,

and you press on.

 

 

Tom Wilson

Edited July 11, 201411 yr by tomfromthenorth

Great poem mate!