Jack Lewis and I used to work for the same motorcycle magazine. We both started at the magazine about the same time. Our moto-journo fortunes seemed linked for 10 years and we both faded from the magazine’s pages nearly in lock step. One month on, one month off: Being platooned with Jack Lewis was like batting cleanup behind Babe Ruth. The crowd would be atwitter over the mammoth home run Jack smashed out into the parking lot, where the cigarette smoking kids would fight each other for the ball. Then it was my turn. No pressure.
I met Jack once in Seattle. He stood two heads taller than me and as much as I would have enjoyed disliking a man so much more talented than me he was the nicest guy you’d ever want to meet. We hit it off like old friends and are internet buddies today.
Jack’s writing has always been challenging, keep your dictionary handy, but the words fit together sweetly and feel like they were always meant to be. If you’ve ever gasped for breath digging a trench or had to guess at the number on a Mikuni main jet, follow the link to his latest piece titled Outcomes. The bastard has hit it out of the park again and the cigarette smoking kids are throwing haymakers.