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Neil Bradford’s Sons of Thunder is a high-octane literary journey that revs through nearly a century of motorcycling lore, blending adrenaline, poetry, and introspection into a single, roaring anthology. Curated with a rider’s intuition and a scholar’s eye, this collection stitches together voices as varied as T.E. Lawrence, Hunter S. Thompson, and Roald Dahl, offering a mosaic of what it means to live—and write—on two wheels.

The anthology opens with a thunderclap: Lawrence of Arabia’s account of hurling his Brough Superior at 90mph across 1920s English roads, a visceral reminder that speed has always been both escape and obsession for riders . From there, the book accelerates through landscapes both physical and emotional. Roald Dahl’s nostalgic ode to his first Ariel 500cc motorcycle contrasts with the gritty realism of Alberto Granado’s travels alongside Che Guevara on a Norton, their journey immortalized in The Motorcycle Diaries . The inclusion of lesser-known gems, like Theresa Wallach’s 1935 overland trek from London to Cape Town, underscores the anthology’s commitment to celebrating unsung pioneers .

What sets Sons of Thunder apart is its refusal to romanticize motorcycling without acknowledging its contradictions. Hunter S. Thompson’s “Song of the Sausage Creature” epitomizes this duality—a chaotic blend of humor and menace, where the thrill of speed collides with the recklessness it demands . Similarly, Thomas McGuane’s wistful reflection on trading his motorcycle for a sedan captures the ache of relinquishing freedom for practicality, a sentiment any rider might recognize .

The anthology’s strength lies in its eclectic range. Ted Hughes’ spare poem “A Motorbike” sits alongside technical rhapsodies about chassis and tyres, while Valentino Rossi’s adrenaline-fueled essay on last-bend overtakes injects modern racing bravado . Yet this variety occasionally strains cohesion. Some entries, like L.J.K. Setright’s granular dissections of motorcycle mechanics, may alienate readers seeking narrative flow, though they delight gearheads . Similarly, excerpts from travelogues like Jonathan Gregson’s Bullet Up the Grand Trunk Road feel tantalizingly brief, leaving readers craving the full journey .

Critics have praised the book as “an eloquent ode to our love affair with motorcycles” (Hindustan Times) and “a bedside book for all bikers” (Daily Mail) . Its power lies in its ability to articulate the ineffable—the “mental release” of the open road, as Bradford terms it. Yet the anthology’s true triumph is its humanisation of riders. By weaving in figures like Don Whillans, a mountaineer who rode his Triumph home from the Himalayas, it challenges stereotypes of bikers as mere “hooligans,” revealing instead philosophers, poets, and adventurers astride machines .

Not all cylinders fire perfectly. The nonlinear structure and uneven pacing—swerving from lyrical meditations to breakneck travelogues—may disorient some. And while the prose often thrills (Thompson’s declaration, “It never got fast enough for me,” lingers like exhaust fumes), deeper cultural reflections, particularly on motorcycling’s global impact, feel underexplored .

Yet these quibbles pale against the anthology’s ambition. Sons of Thunder is less a book than a rally cry—a reminder that motorcycles are not just vehicles but vessels of freedom, rebellion, and connection. As Frieda Hughes notes, it’s a “marvellous book” for its sheer audacity, a testament to why, even in an age of automation, the call of the open road remains irresistible .

For riders, it’s a mirror of their passion; for others, a portal into a world where speed and soul collide. Whether you’re a leather-clad veteran or an armchair traveler, this anthology guarantees one hell of a ride.