Sundays. They used to mean something. Or maybe that’s nostalgia lying to me again, like an old dog wagging its tail even though it knows it’s dying.
I woke up to the sound of church bells back then, echoing out across a half-asleep town. Calling the faithful, or at least calling the guilty. Me, I just pulled the pillow over my head and stayed there, half-listening to the sound of bacon frying downstairs mixed with the faint chug of a steam train going past the back fields. That smell of coal smoke and greasy breakfast was about as close to magic as life got.
Back then, it was a sleepy rural market town. By the 1980s, it had exploded into this cancerous sprawl of superstores and trading estates. It lost its soul. People called it progress, but it felt more like watching your childhood pet get put down for barking too loud.
The 1970s felt permanently grey. Disco was everywhere, like an infection. Every jukebox blasting the same soulless drivel. I had to ride miles just to find a pub that played decent music and let bikers in. Even then, there were the ‘No Bikers Allowed’ signs outside. Nothing like casual prejudice to brighten your day.
I remember trying an experiment. I took off my old boots, ragged tee, leathers, cut – everything that made me look like me. Put on some nice clothes, slicked back my long blonde hair, hid the tattoos and piercings as best I could. Walked into one of those ‘respectable’ pubs. No problem. Week after week. Smiles. Nods. Pints pulled with no questions asked.
Then, one night, I went in as myself. Six-foot-four, built like the Viking I probably once was, hair down past my shoulders, ink crawling up my arms, piercings shining, the smell of exhaust and oil still clinging to me after riding my Dragstar 1100 through the cold night roads.
They asked me to leave. Told me I wasn’t welcome. Same man behind the bar. Same room. Same human being inside me. But apparently, fabric and ink are enough to make you unworthy of a pint in their hallowed establishment.
That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? People see leather and tattoos and long hair, and their minds snap shut like a rat trap. Never mind the fact I was – and still am – more honest, loyal, and spiritual than half the suits they serve. A living prophet, you might say, if your god rides a Dragstar 1100 and swears like a docker on payday.
But Sundays…Sundays were for wandering. No phones. No watches. Just endless hours of me walking down old abandoned railway tracks, past derelict buildings that stood like rotting monuments to a better time. I would climb into forgotten lorries, imagining I was driving them to Valhalla or Hell, didn’t really matter which.
One day, I jumped out and landed on a board. The nail went straight through my foot. All the way. Walked home in agony, explained it to my mum as she pulled the wood off and the blood finally erupted like some cheap horror flick. No buses on Sundays, so my brother pushed me to the hospital on a bike. Saddle digging in where nothing should ever dig in, foot throbbing with each bump in the road. That was my Sunday sermon.
The moral of the story? People will judge you by what you wear and what you ride. But I say ride anyway. Live as you are. Because no matter what you do, life will still shove a rusty nail through your foot when you least expect it.
“The views in this post are based on my personal
experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”
“By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
By storm and silence, I survive.”
🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌
🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌
