Road Dream

I rode away thinking of what I need

I stopped at the beach knowing what I forgot

Days are filled, I don’t ride

Memories flood, the dreams melting

Our emotions as I talk silently to you

During the day leaning against old

Knowledge.

Hearing you in the distance

Leaves me standing as standing

Before the choice again

To renew each other a new

Then I will ride and remember

I love you.

Mark Time

Days have past spinning the words out for fun,

Bringing a notion of riding that has created a stronger

Sense of who I am besides a spandex fool waiting to crash.

Riding is not an effort it is what one does, and so to writing.

What storm could stop me, I made it when others were stuck.

And even if the pencil is a nub, the words stick in the head

Waiting to be put out at the chance of a scrap of paper.

A state of insecurity even commuting the same rate always early.

The floating waves of words crest and fly, become the spume and frost

Of all our hearts and rarely seen but we know the feel and pull of desire.

Between the lines is always the story of becoming and going,

So easy to see in others, until I catch my own reflection

Passing store front windows looking for a clock to mark time.

How Fast Do I Really Need

How fast do I really need to go.

Obviously as fast as possible if I am not carring anything.

On my own I can really fly.

Loaded down I am still moving faster than if I were walking.

How much do I really need to carry

Well, only a spare tube and pump, and water maybe when alone.

All my groceries for a week would do.

An hours worth of travel time would not be onerous.

What is the wieght, time, speed ratio?

That depends on the hills, you can’t make up time going down,

With a load heavy going up.

Hills are great for perspective of mind and space.

The flats are great but vanish in dispare ahead out of sight around corners.

Florida is the place for this.

I would rather take the hills and cold then bake on a distant mirage.

So, how fast to carry sixty pound.

Slow is slow up such a hill under a load of food and goods.

Fast is fast but the friction in the face.

But the feet still go round and round and in the end you are still going home.

Pedaling or coasting along is still bliss.

I will carry the load or pick up the pace to match the pulsing in my heart.

The wheels, the road, the tires and frame,

Its bliss in the mind no ardor, angst nor anger, who cares its rain or slow.