Alpine Race

Light and shadow, as trees filter
sunlight onto a humble Italian road.
Capricious turns, no clear lines of sight
and the race is with those around them.
Shoulders rock in rhythmic shrugs,
a twitch, a tic, unnatural anywhere else
and the strong riders emerge from
the proletariat pack, like seeds sprung
from shells now discarded, shooting forth,
sprouting instantly as the road climbs.
The top is just the beginning of the
downhill exam, all physics and geometry:
compound curves, acute angles of
bent riders and sinuous road, with
extra credit for steeled nerves.
Then, a rush to the line, in a single rider's
tunnel vision of barricades and booming voices
as, for the first time in hours, he unfolds, sits up--
eyes behind mirrors, the arms aloft say it all
and, by now, the wheels know where to go.