Edward Ferri, Jr.

It Started At The End Of The Driveway

The first yellow almost horizontal shafts of the rising sun

were lancing through the ancient sycamore branches that I

used to climb and swing from as I reached the end of the dirt

driveway. I felt a tinge of excitement as my wheels touched

Uvas Road that morning, the old rural road that had always

brought me home to the only place that I had ever known.

I sensed a tingle from the handlebar grips like when young

smooth hands first touch and hold each other on a first date.

Tent, tarp and sleeping bag all crammed inside my Dad’s

old WWII Navy duffle bag lashed down tight on a simple

flat luggage rack. None of that ape hanger high handlebar

Easy Rider Hollywood sissy bar chopper crap for me. This

was a two lane open road warrior motorcycle I had prepared

for the long haul, day after day, week after week, month after

month, rain or shine and even, as I learned weeks later and

three galactic asphalt time zones away, the Adirondack snow.

Shiny black saddle bags meticulously packed and

organized brimmed full as I short shifted up through

the clunky gears, rolling easy on the throttle, (CLUNK),

keeping the revs down, (CLUNK), in the throaty torque

zone of that big bore boxer twin, (CLUNK), in the crisp

morning air that was smooth as glass, (CLUNK).

I still remember that... the air smooth as glass. No head wind,

no tail wind, no wind turbulence at all. The birth of freedom,

emerging from a long dusty driveway, inhaling its first gasp of

God’s given glassy air as I hit that old narrow chip seal country

road. It was then, that early morning, that the open road became

my new lover and my new address. And lucky for me, the open

road never turns down a properly prepared motorcycle.

BIO: Edward Ferri, Jr. grew up on a "non profit" farm in the rain shadow of the Santa Cruz Mountains where "Bailing wire, gumption, and spit" were the "apps" of the day. He is a strong believer in the spirit of Boo Radley and he still savors lessons learned during the “missing years” lived on the roads of North America with a motorcycle that needed to be kicked hard after having its carburators tickled. If you give a hoot, he is a graduate of San Jose State University and has been published in Lucidity Poetry Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, Eskimo Pie, Still Crazy, Agave Literary Magazines and forthcoming in Main Street Rag.