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.

Broken Mirrors

Broken mirrors are
what I have: fierce edges where
reflection ends, so
difficult to hold, but true—
as true as anything is.

"Ex" Marks the Spot

Not a cross to bear--
more like “ex” marks the spot
of unexpected treasure,
found without a map.

Thank you, sun-freckled summer girl,
for saying, early on,
boxers, not briefs,
even if the time wasn't long.

Thank you, with your curling energy,
for saying maybe it is
right after I said
everything feels alright.

Thank you, eyes like mine,
for a kiss and its encore,
coming back more beautifully,
a comet swinging closer.

Thank you, so warm and dark,
for praising my backside
in front of the salesgirl as she
handed me a pair of jeans.

Thank you, fellow teacher,
for being my stand-up partner
even when we weren't
until the laughs ran out.

Thank you, the only blonde,
for rousing me from winter blues
with a sudden spring--
or was it a pounce?

Lines intersecting, then continuing,
leaving a mark on my axis,
even if I ask, rhetorically now,
ex and why?

Old Paint

The blue paint chipped
and I took the scraper to
it—now the question is
where to stop. Layers
of colors underneath,
then down to the bone
of the original plaster
over lath—the paint peels
off in flat flakes, elegant curls,
tiny chips, a confetti pile on
the floor, someone else's work
being undone as I continue--
a small patch, a couple inches,
expanding, with a will of
its own, not straight, but in
arcing curves over the
panels on the door, shapes
humorous and terrifying--
I pause, step back, aware
of another scraper, picking
away at mind-layers, years and colors,
working in the dark, by feel
at best—where to stop?
I pick up a piece of sandpaper,
feather the paint as best I can,
step back slowly, to the point
where things look good--
good enough—if I don't
look too long.

School's Summer

An empty classroom, a floor like a sheet
of ice, reflects summer light from outside,
slight scent of wax lingering. A light wind in
the hall, and the school breathes easy.

The room reaches, wide and empty--
walls and board clean and bare.
Everything's been moved out:
furniture to the hallways, students

scattered like seeds, sprouting into
summer months, under high sun.
Here, real work has been done--
those who came before, turning

twenty-five, twenty-six or more,
somewhere, carrying something
from here—no one enters or exits
a room without taking something

and leaving something else.
Endings and beginnings, stories
crafted in four quarters, two semesters.
Now, no bells, but the slow pulse

of summer's time, measured in
light and darkness, heat and relief--
leading to a chance, in a while,
to pick up the pen, to start again.

Wild World

Forget how many times
you've heard it, forget
the re-makes, karaoke takes
but remember when I say
that tonight, I heard
Cat—Yousef--sing it,
I felt the longing,
the love and loss
inviting me in, through
every string on that
Telecaster, with every
thump of the kick drum,
every dip and rise in
his forlorn gray voice--
my heart vibrating
sympathetic notes,
overtones of my own--
the song a mirror, for
him, me, us—we go
back, look at ourselves
in its reflected light,
the same and not the
same, we see, before
we turn away, as the
last chord fades.

Calling

Walking in with that
comforting sameness,
two black triangles with
hints of white, the nuns come
through the double doors,
out of the sunset into the
cold hallway light,
shifting side to side
in heavy black shoes,
gold rimmed glasses,
little wisps of gray peeking
out from their habits--
they amble past quietly,
until, suddenly, a
lilting Latin rhythm,
all blinding sunshine
and undulating bodies,
clear even in ring-tone
miniature, escapes from
beneath the dark folds,
sultry and sweet.

Ten Years In

Live in a house long enough
and you'll paint things more than
once. I know ceilings, cabinets,
walls well now, ten years in.

I see where your hands have been:
that baseboard, painted just up to
where something used to be--
your desk? Then, dingy old paint

from there to the corner. So
many places you missed, or just
didn't see. Then again, my attention
to detail--never seeing the whole.

Perfectionists never really finish
anything. Maybe that's why I paint
and paint again, no matter if
it's colors or words.

Later, I scrape dirt and grease
from kitchen cabinets, layered on
out of sight up top—how many
curries, stir-fries, burgers left

their marks here, even as they
filled us, sustained us? I labor,
scrub, clean well--but I don't get
it all. Something always remains.

House and heart—today,
telling similar stories.

Evening

Summer settling in
at evening and the
humidity loosens
its grip as a woman
runs through a leafy park
sneaker cinder rhythm
and the setting sun lights
up her hair and makes
a halo of it flashing
on and off as she
moves under the trees.

Race Report: Pawling Mountain Road Race, Sunday, July 10, 2011

I tried my best to get to bed early, but it didn't happen. My nocturnal habits have returned since the school year ended. Fitful sleep, early alarm. So be it. Sun in the sky at 5 a.m. helped. Loaded up and headed out, two hour drive to a race that would probably take an hour. Oh well--runners travel farther for a 5K.

It was a pretty drive down through Columbia County, taking the Taconic past familiar roads where I've built whatever fitness I have. Hanging with the regulars on Tuesdays this year is definitely encouraging.

I got to Pawling without enough time to ride the course at anything resembling a reasonable pace. There wasn't even enough time to drive it. I did drive in over the last couple miles of the course, which were pretty hairy—a short climb and a twisty descent on rough pavement, with ever-larger mammals jumping out in front of me. I told myself it wasn't an omen.

I signed in and saw a couple other riders from CBRC, made some small talk: Are you ready? Ready as I'll be. Really—what rider says, “Oh yeah, I've been riding lots, and feeling super strong”? I got in a decent 20-minute warm-up, which I figured was enough for an hour-long race. Lots of down-state/NYC/Connecticut club kits, and more women than our boys' club rides usually attract.

Usually, my nerves are at their worst the night before a race. The morning of, not so bad. For some reason, though, I was really nervous rolling up to the start. Not sure why--maybe too much coffee. It thankfully went away once we started riding, as I settled in about 20 riders back in our group of around 50. We had a “neutral start”—no racing right from the line—and I wasn't sure where it ended, as the pace picked up only a bit. Everybody was pretty well-behaved and predictable.

I dropped my chain around mile four, off the OUTSIDE of the big ring. The cranks started spinning uselessly and my bike made a sound like an old man reaching into an ample pocket of change. So much for thinking I had my derailleurs dialed perfectly. I back-pedaled for about 20 seconds before the chain popped back on, with guys yelling at me to drop back the whole time—to where? I was on the outside, right at the double yellow. To stop would mean getting dropped before even really starting. There's no team car with a spare bike in amateur racing. But, hey, it worked out, even though I lost about ten places.

The easy pace continued, but I think we all knew the race would get a lot harder around mile seven, at the beginning of a two-mile climb. That's just what happened, as riders rose out of their saddles, heart rates spiked, breathing became labored. The climb quickly split the field right in front of me—which, for some reason, happens often. Then, the question: bridge to the group ahead or not? That move might work, or it might lead to me blowing up, and being caught in that lonely space between groups. Since I didn't know the course, I climbed at my own pace. Two miles, around six percent grade, seated, at about 85 percent of my capacity.

There was a guy in a Monadnock jersey who was doing these strong attacks, rising and sprinting. I resisted the bait and did my own thing, which worked out because he'd always drift back. Over the top, I slowly passed him, and he grabbed my wheel. We worked together on the descent, and the flat bit that followed, eventually catching four other riders. It's a sweet feeling, cranking along, then letting off the gas for a few seconds as that last little gap closes, into that quiet cone of shelter. We got a ragged pace line going, with lots of shouting but not much understanding. Maybe I should cat up, I thought briefly, but that might involve riding alone more often, watching even more riders shrink away ahead of me. Maybe next year.

Bike racing is more fun for me when I'm in a group. It was at this point that the race got interesting. Good riders can study others quickly: pick out the strong, steady ones; avoid the wobbly, slower ones. I rode well, taking short pulls, but somehow ending up back out front quickly.

Our alliance of six strengthened as we covered a few more miles. Hopes soared as we discussed how many—or how few—riders were in front of us. Hard left, past the marshals' orange flags, and we spotted more riders on the next climb: bait for our hungry gruppetto. We passed them, yelled “grab a wheel,” but none did. There's such a huge range of ability and fitness at this admittedly lower level of competition that riders do get very spread out on the road.

Soon we were on the last climb, the one I'd reconnoitered from the car. I was out front, and I set an easy pace—go ahead and pass if you want, then you pull. Whatever our overall standings in the race, it was fun to use strategy for once. In the past, if I was out front, I'd feel a need to push the pace. I guess I'm learning.

Watching my computer, I knew the end was coming, so I tucked in behind the biggest rider in the group, to whom I'd later properly introduce myself. He looked around every once and a while, inviting me to pull up, but I declined. The six riders reshuffled places for a bit, little tests and bursts. The speed picked up as we neared the countdown: signs placed at 200, 100 and 50 meters.

I've never truly sprinted for the line in a race before, but it seemed inevitable. We were all in the bar drops, and I felt good, right behind the big guy. A couple others came around, and I jumped, sat in for a moment, then came around. Out of our six, I passed four just before the line. So it wasn't for first place—it was still a rush, the best moment of the race.

We coasted down the road afterward, made quick introductions and gave animated re-caps, all in that sweet post-race euphoria.

I grabbed lunch with some other CBRC riders—and Terry, my lead-out man, who, it turns out, is a really cool dude. "Jeez, Terry," I said, "if I'd have know you were such a nice guy... "

The cold, hard facts: I placed 17th out of 44 finishers in my field, riding 20 miles in 58 minutes and nine seconds. Sure, I want to do better in the next race. But, as I hope I've shown, there's much more to it than that.

For another description of the sprint, click here.

For a run-down of my rather average race results, click here.

Haiku

The past? A still pond,
reflecting. The present is
a rising river.