I’m a red hotrod high speed driver
Screaming on down the road
I’m a red hotrod high speed driver
Screaming on down the road
Goin a 120 down to Darien
Trying to lighten my load
I‘m a red hotrod high speed driver
Runnin on down the state line
I’m a red hotrod high speed driver
Did a 130 across the state line
You know death take large bites
It ain’t no friend of mine
We blew past Tampa
Down to the churchyard
Where we buried him
Damn that was hard
We screamed back to Savannah
Much faster past the state line — 152
Grief’s a faster black hotrod high speed driver
It was waiting back home for me too
Thought Georgia State Patrol’d roadblock it just before exit 92
It’s got a supercharger and a stealth mode too
I’m a red hotrod high speed driver
Screaming on down the road
I’m a red hotrod high speed driver
Screaming on down the road
Goin back home at a 192
Trying to shed my load
Just gonna have to slow down and do my grief time
You know stuff like this can’t be fixed by some happy stories time
Or red hotrod high speed driving
Just not gonna let me slide
It just can’t be denied
Author’s Note: Below are photos of North Georgia cabin landscapes as well as some brief thoughts about grief.
– Marlow
W, I, families and friends interred the ashes of a dear friend at a local secluded Tybee Island beach, having blazed on down to Fort Myers to do the same for my brother earlier this month as well as faced the sudden death of a dear Florida friend’s pops.
We had hoped to meet. reminisce, and sup with him and his on our northward return to the Empire. These were bookend sandwiched with long road trips to include medical things and what was to be a month-ending week of decompression dining, cocktailing and chilling on a remoter-than-remote north Georgia mountain top.
That relief proved to be a chimera when one of our younger cabin companions suffered a post-midnight heart attack and had to be raced transported blazed down ink black, but thankfully empty, mountain roads — some single lane mountain edge, gravel topped — to reach a cardio hospital just north of Atlanta. Upon her catch, release and return to us she was moved gingerly in attitude and affect only for us to face her older spouse’s face plant on our hideaway’s Georgia stone walkway.
Fortunately, we had two nurses on staff, antiseptics, Steri-Strips and several bags of frozen corn and peas to reduce the swelling and staunch the blood leakage. His our new cabin nick name is Lumpy.
Upon return from these Deliverance climes, I found an electronic missive from a fellow, long-distance motorcycling fanatic that announced his move on the 28th to a senior living facility (he’s still riding as 80 approaches). His life partner, aka Saint Margaret, is a tad mobility challenged, which only serves to glue them closer together and lean on each other as Semper Fi’s.
He closed by saying “In the decades that I refused to be referred to as ‘old’ would draw a less than polite response. Now, however, it cannot be denied. I am old and the hardest thing is to admit it.” To which, I rejoin “Young at heart is where it’s at.”
We’re still alive and mostly well.
-Marlow and his fellow Lumpies
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