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.