Story and Gallery: Been a Long Time Since I Rock and Rolled

Play this as the official soundtrack to the images and the story:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2lSwo…

The opening crash of cymbals and the snarl of a guitar cut through the night as Ruby tore down the cracked pavement of a forgotten highway. Like the mighty blast that starts off Zeppelin’s “Rock and Roll,” she was a force of nature, unrestrained, unstoppable.She was an avatar of dominance and rebellion, her very stance an invocation of rock’s enduring power. The night air carried the scent of leather and gasoline, a heady mixture that fueled the fire in her soul.

Clad in her high-waisted red shorts and a blouse that clung to her like a second skin, revealing the wild tapestry of tattoos that adorned her, she was more than a mere echo of rock’s golden age; she was its reincarnation. With a sudden rev of her engine, she shattered the stillness, announcing her presence to the world like the opening crash of John Bonham’s drums.

Her bike was an iron steed, and she its indomitable rider, her stance fierce and unyielding against the gleam of the Cadillac that rested beside her—a silent witness to her untamed spirit. “Been a long time since I rock and rolled,” she bellowed, her voice as raw and untamed as the wind that whipped through her raven-black hair, streaked with red like the embers of a fire long burning. 

She had been a legend in the underground circuit, a guitar goddess whose fingers coaxed the weeping wails of Jimmy Page’s own six-string sorcery.Ruby cradled her guitar like a lover, a Gibson that had felt the caress of her hands and the whisper of her secrets. With every chord struck, she summoned echoes of a time when rock was king, and the open road was its kingdom.

“It’s been a long time since the book of love,” she sneered with disdain, the worn leather of her jacket creaking as she shifted gears, her bike thundering like Bonham’s drumming beneath her. The book of love was just another fairy tale, and Ruby had long ago thrown it into the pyre for the sake of the pursuit of something more, something pure, something like the raw essence of rock itself.

“Seems so long since we walked in the moonlight,” she recalled, a sly grin on her lips as she remembered the wild nights of her youth, nights that burned brighter than any star overhead. Those were the nights that tasted of whiskey and felt like the buzzing of a thousand electric amps.

“Making vows that just can’t work right,” she laughed, the sound ragged and real. Promises were as fleeting as the road beneath her wheels; they were made to be broken, just like the rules she shattered on her climb to infamy.

She rode like Plant sang—without caution, a primal scream in the face of a world too rigid, too dry. “Open your arms, open your arms, open your arms, baby, let my love come running in,” she cried to the vast desert, her words a challenge, an invitation.

Her motorcycle was a beast, her black leather gloves gripping the handlebars with the same intensity that Plant held the microphone. “It’s been a long time, been a long time, been a lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time.” Each “lonely” was a mile on the road, each “time” was a memory that she wore like a badge of honor.

Ruby’s skin was a canvas of art, tattoos sprawling across her arms and chest, each one a testament to a chapter of her vivid life. Roses intertwined with musical notes on her forearms, a tribute to melodies that fueled her soul’s engine. A majestic eagle spread its wings wide across her back, symbolizing the freedom she found on the open road. Dragons and dice, symbols of luck and chance, of a gamble taken when she left her old life in the dust of her rearview mirror.

Her hair was as dark as the midnight sky, save for the striking crimson streaks that flowed through it like threads of passion. It was pinned up neatly under a bandana, which was tied in a knot at the top of her head, a flash of red against her jet-black tresses, a cherry on top of a sundae of style.

Ruby’s attire was a bold expression of her individuality. A cropped, button-up blouse clung to her frame, revealing the intricate designs on her skin, while her high-waisted shorts embraced her curves, a striking red that matched her bandana and the fiery streaks in her hair. Strappy red sandals adorned her feet, tapping to an unheard rhythm, and her full, tattooed legs carried her with an effortless grace that belied her strength.

Her eyes, rimmed with kohl and alight with a hint of mischief, mirrored the blue of the skies she raced beneath. They sparkled with stories untold, of long nights and longer roads, of friendships formed in the flickering neon lights of roadside diners and goodbyes said in the silent understanding between nomads of the asphalt.

As the desert gave way to the dawn, the first light of the morning glinted off the metal studs of her harness, casting reflections of a life lived loud, lived fast, and lived free. Ruby was the living, breathing embodiment of “Rock and Roll,” a song incarnate, her life a continuous riff that would never fade out, just as Zeppelin’s anthem would never die.

With the sunrise at her back, she rode on, the desert her kingdom, her story a blazing trail left in the wake of her thunderous passage, her legacy the echo of rock and roll that would reverberate through the canyons and into eternity.