microbrews (sweet and smooth)
that I can order anywhere I go
restaurants that have a decent meal
and are within fifteen minutes
the skyline with its cash register trademark
that I first saw at age seven
Starbucks (though I’m no daily-doser)
just for its frequency of availability
women on bicycles (though few)
so for once I can blend in
the absence of fleas, mosquitoes,
or any other recognizable insect
the peaks that keep their snow
into the middle of July
and the camaraderie of close friends
who wrap us up with happiness.
Month: July 2010
The Climb
surrounded by green,
i feel i’ve traveled
this path in my past,
its twists over tree roots,
the edges thick with ancient ferns,
moisture licking my legs,
it is more than a memory.
i come to a place
that has haunted (pleased)
so many dreams that my mind
has put forward just for
this moment in time.
here it offers me a crossroads,
the yellow wood from my youth
or the mountain to climb with age.
i reach for what i think must be
a native plant, plucking up
its circular leaf pattern to turn in my palm
while my mind, taken aback,
makes the choice.
as startling as my decision is,
i turn towards the mountain.
i have seen some peaks between now and then
and I am ready for the climb.
Give a Girl a Bike
I am lost. It’s official, and something I am never proud to admit. But after thirteen years of driving across the country and visiting the tiny town of Rockford, Tennessee, I was sure I had its intricate map of five streets implanted in my brain. The store, the post office, the mill, the small neighborhood with all the dogs and no fences, the bridge over the Little River (yes, actually the name), the playground, the row of churches, even the small ranch house with a sign out front entitled, “City Hall.”
“Just like Gorham (the tiny town of my formative youth),” I’ve told my family a thousand times. “Nothing to it.”
I already called Bruce once, stopping around mile forty-two out of fifty, and he gave me a general guideline. Quite sure he told me I’d gone too far upon reaching Martin Mill Pike, I give in and turn there, sure it will lead me in the right direction.
It could have been I heard him wrong, but I have another motive that surpasses my initial motive of riding the bike from his sister’s house to his parents’ house. Out of the blue, emerging onto this beautiful, curving back road, I am suddenly surrounded by bicyclists with bibs pinned to their backs: “Rocky Top 100K.” I am trying to determine just how many miles 100K is (oh, us Americans!!), and thrilled at the same time. They are in a race, I tell myself, and I have already ridden fifty miles, the first hour in the dark, and they just started (I can tell—they’re barely sweaty) and I’m keeping right up with them!
So yes, when I see Martin Mill Pike, I can’t help but be guided by their diligent pursuit of a nicely sloped hill. Halfway up, a passel of them are stopped on the side of the road, all men of course, the only women here are tied to their spouses’ sides, helping one guy fix a flat. I take my opportunity.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Rockford…?”
He speaks without a southern accent, and I can’t say I’m surprised by this, decked out head to toe in brightly colored nylon with click-in shoes and pockets in the back of his shirt, I just don’t think he’d quite fit in down at the cigarette store. “You’re in Rockford. Which part are you looking for?”
Wow. Which part? There are parts of Rockford? “Um… by Four Corners?” The name of the aforementioned one store.
“This road will take you right there. Just keep following it and it ends right at Four Corners.”
OK. So I do. Hop back on, pedal my way up, getting a little anxious (we are meeting someone later, and I promised Bruce this ride wouldn’t take longer than four hours. I’ve already surpassed that mark). I am surrounded by a dense forest, a curving road, beautiful tin-roofed houses tucked into the woods, going up, up, up… and proudly passing one racer after another. When we reach the top, groups of them cluster in gravel driveways to rest, drink. I grin right past and pedal my way down what I realize is more like a mountain (we are in the Smokies, after all) than a hill.
It has been about three or four miles (I’m kicking myself for not paying more attention), and all the bikers are turning. Now I’m truly confused. The guy said this road would take me right there, but I’m still surrounded by forests and fields, nothing but a giant church in sight (you don’t need a town to have a church here). This can’t be right. That Yankee doesn’t know Rockford.
So I follow the bicyclists, mixing in as if I’m in it to win it, but I give up after a while. Another guy stops too, not sure he’s on the right route.
“I think I’ve followed the 100K group. I’m only riding thirty miles today.”
“Do you happen to know where Rockford is?”
“No, but I have a GPS.” Of course, and no southern accent as well, I’ll point out. He pulls it out, types in what I think is their street address (have I mentioned how small Rockford is? When we mail things to our in-laws, we have to send it to a P.O. box. That’s how small it is!!), and sends me in the direction I’ve already been riding in.
Well… a couple of huge hills and miles later, I feel as if I’m going the wrong way. So I finally admit it. I’m lost, I’m going to have to call Bruce, and we’re definitely going to be late. He has to stop from his drive down, pull out his handy dandy iPad, and find me a route.
Turns out, I am about five miles from Rockford, but it is still Rockford. The first guy was right. I pass by Martin Mills Pike on my way to Four Corners, and later, when Bruce, the girls and I drive up the road, I realize how many more miles I would have had to ride to get into the center of town.
So… what have I learned from this day? One, I can ride sixty-five miles (albeit by default, I was trying for fifty), after a quick Google search (what did we ever do without the Internet?), I learn that 100K is equivalent to 62.3…. (yeah!), and Rockford, tiny, Podunk Rockford, is quite a bit larger than I ever thought. Just goes to show that you give a girl a bike, you learn something new every day.
Follow the Pavement Black
after five and a half years of bodily sacrifice
i have taken a bite out of a different slice
strange it is to follow the pavement black
but this is the only way to get my body back
it’s not the baby belly (though it may seem)
but about my dignity, my self esteem
for them i gave scarred skin, life, milk
and now the road beckons with its silk
i follow it wherever my legs desire
as in high school when i was on fire
it saves me just as much as it did then
reminding me how to be myself again.
Just What I Didn’t Expect
just when I’m about to turn
on a ride that’s a bit too long
(the sun is mocking me),
I catch a glimpse of a black shadow
in my newly-purchased rearview mirror.
at an easy lope, he follows me like a horse,
black and white fur as thick as
wool on a sheep’s back, tongue
dangling out the side of his mouth
with a wanton lust for liquid.
I pedal faster, but have never seen
a dog keep my 15 mph pace, and
the adrenaline seeps out with my sweat.
But I can’t just ride into the night,
so I slam on the brakes at the crest of a hill.
In a moment, he bounds over the top,
blue eyes as beautiful as the baby’s, he’s
a Husky in Kentucky, poor thing. I call to
him like he’s mine and he obediently
sits beside the bike for a master-pet rub.
I gulp down my Gatorade, make my turn,
and he follows me for a good long mile,
just as a sled dog should, just what I didn’t
expect, reminding me once again that this place
(I should hate) is just what I didn’t expect.
Fit for Life
ninety degrees, heading into the sun,
hour three of a dogged day’s drive.
my sweat gives in to my need for
some cool caffeine, even if it means
stopping at the food devil’s door.
i stand in line behind their typical customer:
400 pounds, greasy white hair,
pack of Marlboros tucked into its home
in his back pocket, he orders his
super-sized meal and waddles around
while the too-thin cashier rings it up.
i catch a glimpse (all it takes)
of his 4X gray T-shirt that
bubbles over his belly
like an ashy house dress.
“Fit for Life: Jesus Christ’s Gym.”
when i discover the latte machine is broken,
the irony leads me across the street where
i put $2.46 down on the gas station counter
for a canned Starbucks, the Indian brothers
taking my money, their heavy accents reminding me
of home, home, home.
A Dip in the Pool
a hot blanket
irremovable
snatches the relief away,
trapping the summer sun
against my skin
(against my soul)
dragging me down
into the soil of
my deepest doubts
and no matter how many
times i tear at its seams
their strained cries,
their complaints,
even their smiles
can’t keep me cool
until i can find a way
to cut it open, throw it
to the ground,
and take a dip in the pool.
Silent Guidance
it is not for this view of farms
with old wooden barns
in the early mist of morning
that i rise early and ride
(though it could be)
it is not for the excitement
of a road I’ve never traveled
its twists and turns leading me
into a maze of forests and fields
(though it could be)
it is not for the muscles in
my legs that have tightened
into circular mounds of strength,
carrying me endlessly without pain
(though it could be)
it is for them, three souls lined up
to lead a life that they will choose,
and in my silent guidance they will see
that there are many roads, many paths,
that will lead each of them to happiness.
Watching from a Window
Watching from a window
Any voyeur can see your life
(the emanating love that
Masks the secretive sadness)
But i am not a voyeur, only a lonely
Lost soul (aren’t we all?) and
I can see it hidden behind this
Picture-window view (between the lines)
Because i have been inside your soul
(though currently an outcast) and still recall
The time when you and I were innocent schoolgirls,
Watching from a window how we pictured the world.
Lunch Will Wait
with the keys trapped inside
and us trapped here,
we have a moment to dwell
or look out at the view of rolling hills,
a distant silo,
and listen to the variety of birdsongs
in the for-once-not-too-hot day.
Lunch will wait, as will we,
and move on with our day
in the same languid way
as natives of Tennessee.
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