Big Big Train - Brooklands

BROOKLANDS by Greg Spawton Coming over the headland At high speed With the sun at my back, From the valley below me Carried on the breeze, The cry of the engine is calling. Like a ghost on the water, That shimmers In silver and red, Flying over the surface To the finishing line. Racing away from the shoreline Back there as a young lad at Brooklands. Mountains rise into the distance, Jetsam drifts on the water. Driving onto the banking At high speed On the 50 foot line, The cry of the engines, The roar of the crowd. The hammer strikes sound In the workshops, The smell of burned oil fills the air. I rode there on two wheels, Came back with four, I said all my words on the racing line. She watched me from the half-crown And from the measured mile, Race the fading light. I was a lucky man, a lucky man, I did the things I can, The things I can't explain. On the racing line Lived life at high speed, Too fast too far. I was a lucky man, a lucky man, I did the best I can. And I'd do it all again, But where did all the time go? I was a lucky man... Where did all the time go? Coming over the headland At high speed, The sun at my back, The cry of the engines, The roar of the crowd. Racing away from the shoreline, Back there as a young lad at Brooklands, Mountains rise into the distance, Jetsam adrift on the water. I was a lucky man, a lucky man, I did the things I can, The things I can't explain, But where did all the time go? Just give me one more run On the racing line, One more time, One last time...