Lords of the big rings,
small-cog spinners, mid-pack winners,
fully kitted saints and sinners
in the church of the maxed-out heart,
whirling dervishes on a different plane--
Slicing the blossomed air
each forward surge a dare
drop the shoulders, hands
loose on the hooks--
hey, how's my form look?
Good move, I say aloud,
as someone grabs a wheel--three's a crowd--
two off the front, empty road rises ahead,
teamwork, an alliance unsaid.
Riding, surfing a swelling wave,
crawling out of the cave
of my mind into the
slanting dusk--
push on, perfect circles--
today, I must.
My alchemy machine,
stress and anger burn the best--
off the front now, in the
soft asphalt quiet, alone,
no chance for rest--
But no need! My speed
keeps me upright as we
hurtle into damp, sweet twilight.
It's not a bike, but a
fulcrum, a magical lever--
right now I'm immortal,
turn those cranks forever!
1 comment:
I'm grooving on juxtaposition of the two ride reports! I like the urgency of the poetic one, the gruffness of the factual.
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