Kicking The Pan

I was walking to the chopper,

It's been a faithful old Pan.
Ready to kick it to life,
a two kick start, that's the plan.

It's freaking hot outside,
the air still, nowhere a sound.
Some people are milling about.
The familiar oil spot on the ground.

Checking the ratchet top,
I hand shift into neutral.
Only has 4 gears,
but oh man, are they brutal.

Setting the choke,
the S.U. is no quitter.
Ignition is retarded,
my boot on the kicker.

The crowd is getting closer.
Now on me is the pressure.
Will be one kick for prime,
Will be one kick for pleasure.

The Panhead roars to life,
the little girls start to cry.
The men nodding their approval.
The big girls letting out a sigh.

The engine enters its steady lope.
The transmission whines its steady note.
The dry clutch with it's constant rattle,
the ground is shaking, as a field at battle.

Straddling the cobra seat,
My boot to the suicide pedal.
The crowd is aghast,
never seen anything quite so rebel.

Jockey shifting into first,
as the clutch is slowly eased out.
Everyone in that crowd,
wishes it was them, there is no doubt.