Riding the Road to Convergence

Mike Pearson was a senior software engineer on a project I was leading. The project brought two systems together in a process called Convergence. Mike would arrive at work each day on his Harley, and told us stories of his experiences at the biker convention in Sturgis, South Dakota. I used these elements to pen a poem that celebrated his exploits.

Riding the Road to Convergence

You can hear the engine rumble as he rolls around the curve,

Well before you can see his emergence.

He’s a vision dressed in leather on his Harley Davidson,

And he’s riding the Road to Convergence.

With a pair of dark sunglasses perched securely on his nose,

A mustache and goatee lie beneath.

Lips are parted in a smile as he comes braking to a stop,

And mosquitoes are stuck in his teeth.

He has no need for a helmet when he’s riding on his bike,

’Cause his hair forms a smooth carapace.

He applies more styling gel than any werewolf could endure,

Then a blow dryer cures it in place.

He has arms the size you need to keep control at ninety-five,

When your hog wants to run off the road.

After hours in the saddle you can see when he dismounts

He has legs just the slightest bit bowed.

So he took his hog to Sturgis just to see what it’s about,

For a week of the booze and the sin.

But he had to go instead to some adjacent biker town

That allowed open liquor and skin.

There a biker, with tattoos that covered most of his physique

And a girl on his arm sans a shirt,

Took offense at Michael’s glancing at his girlfriend’s attributes.

Good thing Mike is a true extrovert.

Because Michael has experience with angry customers

Who are looking for someone to blame,

He could see the fire burning in the face of this galoot,

So he moved to extinguish the flame.

With a smile he sketched a tale of discombobulating scale

(Sort of like he explains CRS),

And in no time he was drinking bourbon whiskey with this dude,

And the guy’s saying, “Mike, you’re the bes’.”

So if you ever have the chance to visit Michael at his home,

You will find, as a friend, he’s no slouch.

He has several chopper motorcycles parked out on the lawn,

And a biker asleep on his couch.

John Campbell

15 September 2008

Click here for my previous poem, Cruise Story