Brian, thinking of you in your time of sorrow, I hope you find this poem appropriate;
Biking oil was in his blood,
Petrol flowing through his heart.
Throttle revving but the flood,
Meant his engine Wouldn't start.
The exhaust sounding rather rough,
Its noise as cutting as a knife.
The gallant spark not quite enough,
To fire their engine into life.
The key was turned, the button pushed,
Expecting now a biking roar,
But the engine ... knackered ... bushed,
Wouldn't function any more.
The biker Brent has died but still,
His soul rides onward to the west.
His wheels role onward, vale and hill,
He soon will find eternal rest.
So we'll mount up and onward ride,
Remembring well the one who died.
Towards the sunset on our road,
Our biker friend who's gone before.