Fear and Motion

I launch my bicycle over piles of rocks

when chasing a competitor,

crouch into corners at car-like speeds,

but my heart rides in the equivalent

of a tank, or at least a pope-mobile.

Safe. Isolated. Cut off from so much.

I know about pain, hurt, injury, wear and recovery.

The physics of muscles, the ripping and tearing,

the inflammation that leads to growth and more strength.

I throw myself into it, and reap the results of calm mind,

tingly body, a soreness I say means I'm alive.

But what of my heart? Reduced to a high-performance

component in my drive train, constant orders from

upstairs pushing out those old hurts, systolic

and diastolic movement, a whooshing drowning out

any little whispers of some sort of emotional center.

Fear and motion, those familiar safeguards.