9W

The figure ahead is without doubt slow

My head down looking through eyebrows

They have not a notion of being chased

The pace is in question, but only for me

I gain, the race is on, till I know I will pass, all smiles

Then surge at the next glimpse of cadence ahead

Just make the wheel, I say

My mind fixed in a game alone

Played by being faster. Until I am passed.

I jump and thirty seconds later am dropped

No hint or smile that I was there

No hope of catching the wheel.

I spy ahead for my next unsuspecting chase

On I go pushing myself to get home

Hoping to catch, find the right match, a draft

On the road where cyclist go.

 

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