Slugging Pedals

A day starts grand riding together

Till the sluggish push of a pedal

Ticks off the urge to just pull away.

Now alone you pause

What a day is in your mind

Then woosh the pack is past

Back alone, a struggle

The pedals heavy and you will say

Must be the breaks are slowing me,

The bike is old, and heavy.

Not the steep climb or lack of food

Nor weeks of watching the tube

Unsettled because you have not mastered

The ease of spinning your cranks faster

On your own bike your own way,

Till you care less how fast or slow

The pack or others go.

What is the need to break the speed

Other than the to be a breathless fool

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Cold Snow

Spring is rushing ready to crash into the cold.

Just as I am warm to the 20 degree breeze

I feel the sun’s heat on my legs but dred

The choking humidity to come, more sluggish

then the clumps of ice and snow on my feet.

There will be a moment, a few days, when flying over

the road the air feels invisible and every effort a joy

An endless passing not passing of before but now.

The hands get warmer then a beat and I feel the cold again

Just keep going, no one to meet, I can see

the marks left by a tire, not alone, but one of few.

Wind direction picks the days to ride. When its cold enough

to concern ones self with temps too far below freezing.

Some days it’s warmer at night then the morning.

My mind is made up wanting to be the first tracks in the snow.

They are the calmest, smoothest, tire tracks parting the snow

Before the muck and slush, a toll on riders from careless fools.

Yet some days there I am behind a wheel, thoughts whirling

Being on someone’s wheel, then I wouldn’t need such foolishness as gas.

Winters stand will soon be gone, the grit left on the floor a reminder

Swept to the bin on that day in hopes of lasting rain.

A Bagpipe Tune

Go into a store and come out only to see

The bike with no wheels

The bike with no wheels

Home again work again avoid the post and

The bike with no wheels

The bike with no wheels

It just isn’t right to lock a bike and then find

The bike with no wheels

The bike with no wheels

The anger rage, and tears that mean something to

The bike with no wheels

The bike with no wheels

How many locks do I need to keep from having a

The bike with no wheels

The bike with no wheels

The chain is so heavy and long, I still fret over

The bike with no wheels

The bike with no wheels

Is it woven just right or will I come out to find

The wheels with no bike

The wheels with no bike

Picking a Bike

Abandoned, locked to the fate

Under a lamp post scavenger

Needing a part that is easy pickings.

The tires flat and a wheel untethered,

The bell ringing in a distant street

On a miss patched handle bar.

Break forks empty usually the first to go

Rust sets in and soon the cables disappear

And then a lever because its not much use with out break pads.

The feeling of inevitable use and need.

Rarely seen, but crouched over the machine

She breaks a chain and takes the rear derailleur.

Could I use the stem maybe a better size? but I ride by

Afraid of tilting the bike karma balance unfairly

The rear tire is now cracked spokes are missing

The rim is bent, peddles gone, one at a time.

The lock looks bigger now pressing the frame down

Where it once stood on wheels and the lock was perky

Now flat with a crushed soda can over the head tube,

More spokes gone? Some sticking out bent like stems

where the leaf was torn away. The tubes now used

For tying down a crate on the back of another bike

Finally the tires go, cut and used I don’t know

Now the frame and lock lay rusted unable to be freed

Then its gone and the sign post waits

For the next bike to suffer the picking and pecking in the night.