A poem set in the County Ground
By John Barker
On Monday nights the Falcons fly,
But not up in the evening sky.
Four laps of the County Ground,
That's where the Falcons fly around.
Riders crouch with unblinking eyes,
As they wait for the starting gate to rise.
The tapes go up and off they speed,
With red and blue just in the lead.
Into the bend so awfully fast,
With not a yard twixt first and last.
Each rider broadsides his machine,
With only inches in between.
Spectators roar then hold their breath,
And cheer those men who dice with death.
Out of the second bend they race,
Our man in red is in last place.
Down the straight into the bend,
Three more laps before the end.
The man in red with throttle wide
Rides the fence, then dives inside.
My mouth is dry, my fingers twitch,
Excitement is at fever pitch.
As riders battle wheel to wheel,
No words express the thrill I feel.
Exhaust pipes roar, engines wail,
Back wheels spinning shifting shale.
Leathers blacken, faces grim
As each brave rider rides to win.
The grandstand crowd are on their feet.
Will the Falcons win the heat?
And after all the racing's done,
We cheer the Falcons, they have won.