The Dreamin' Diaries

The Blues

Jelly Roll
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I'm sittin' here and listening to the sum total of my life in music. My name is Jelly Roll. Some might think I'm about sweet food. Others will know that Jelly Roll Morton may have played a part but the reality is that it's a nickname given to me by a good friend back in the heyday of my appreciation for other humans. How he thought of it, I don't know or care. I like it. It is, really, me.


The name, the image, the alternativeness of a tangential personality fit right in with the lifestyle I was to call my own, from the start of it's second revival, some 4 years ago, as I leaned out of the lot and eased the throttle back and down. My bike, my road, my town, me. I owned it. The rest of the world was there too, to have, in due course.


The (re) learning curve was as smooth as a baby's butt. Well, it was really the downward direction of it all that was so smooth. Progress was measured in fear, angst, wonderment, subsidizing an adrenaline fortified ego. This “pain for gain” chart looked more like the Enron stock ticker in the final days.


I got a bigger bike, toyed it up real good and challenged every ride, every report and everyone who sought to be close to me. I wanted to be the best rider, the one who saw the big picture of every condition. I wanted to drag into every corner and “late apex” out, into the bliss of G force tension.


And I wanted to dance.


I wanted to dance while riding.


So I put on the equipment with big power amps and loaded it up with the highway songs that inspired the blending of man, machine and environment into the universal truth that is, for lack of a better description, dancing while riding.


Now, I ride with the sweet sound of motorcycle perfection echoing in my brain and fading only to be replaced with yet another “click” in a lifetime of gear shifts with their fading crescendos.
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