Why Do I Ride??

Will this sodding incline never end? Each pseudo-summit rises round the bend. Flats false as politicians promise rest, Yet burning lungs and thighs attest: The sweat it took to reach this spot; The gradient never reaches nought.

My fists are bloodless, clenched on bars I shift my weight back to my arse Relax a bit and smooth my stroke, Not crush and burn like coke The metatarsals in my feet. Damn the pot holes on this street!

When was it I last ate? My stomach's empty, shrunken state Can barely take a morsel, I pop a black Fruit Pastille; A surge of currant citrus slakes A mouth as dry as desert lakes.

I pull the pedals up a bit To ease the burning in my feet And spikes of lightning rip The thigh, as cramp takes grip. I bite my tongue and push on through. Divert the brain, with agony anew!

Bless the slightest levelling out. Tick off each smallest count Of distance. Sing. Shout. Do anything if energy persists To bear the aching wreck of wrists Arms, shoulders, back, The body twisting on this rack Where is la volupté, the bliss? Why do I ride? For this?

Why I Ride

The sun shines, and there's a cooling breeze. Spring spatters hedgerows with colour and life. My heart beats in a hustling trio with birdsong And the warm droning wrrrrr of tyres on tarmac. Turning the pedals is natural and easy, Briefly in Bobet's elusive volupté, The shimmering promise of power and grace, Man & machine in perpetual bliss, A caress that carries me forward.

I ride for this. For the profound connectedness of body and mind, With the clean, hard work of the ride, the hills, and the whooping descents. For the power. For the pain of attaining the goal. For life. For a few more years, months, minutes maybe At the end of the road.

Pots

Pots are hidden all around, If you can see to find them. In plain sight or in the ground They cradle goods of priceless worth To treasure seekers low or grand.

This boy is only just a man, Though seven years a soldier. Conviction born of honest youth, He cuts a straight and steady path, Through a grey and wintry land.

Like all who journey seeking gold He has a cunning plan. To learn the skill of finding pots And mapping their locations, And then the oh-so-tricky art Of total pot extraction.

He quizzes men from foreign climes With tales of derring-do. Dazzled by their savoir faire, And humbled by their worldly cares His searching gaze turns to his self, In ardent introspection.

His youthful ears hear much. His youthful hand transcribes the facts. And then this childlike man moves on To get the trick of finding gold From the next, and many wise men.

In later life the man reflects That once or twice he thought the gold Was there, within his reach. Or, no, much closer! Before his face, A whispered breath away! But earnest eyes and scribbling hand Had looked too hard to see, Or written down what should be done, Or startled pride had led him dumb away.

And yet without him seeing, The pots somehow found him, And now their contents fill his life With riches that when younger He had neither seen nor longed for.