a tight group of
eight riders flying
down a dirt road
tires thumb-wide
heart pounding in
the head and arms bent
and wheels furrow the dry dirt
mid-pack riders inches apart
bike dancing beneath me
like skiing powder
feeling good and the
bike pulls left and
I follow the wheel
hundreds of tiny hands
grab the skinny tire
scrub off the speed and
a gap opens and riders
in front pull away
roll away like nothing
but it’s something and
I wheeze and stand on
the pedals alone in the wind
and there goes seven places
and I ride on inside myself and
riders ahead are miniature
figures and 17 miles to go and
I ride on to the
finish or oblivion
whichever comes
first.
