biking

Crossroads

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every morning
as i come to my crossroads
just after dawn
touches her fingers to sky,
i make my decision–
an uphill battle
breaking my muscles,
the wind of the highlands
an ever-greater challenge
than the meandering creek

i pedal for simple sights:
the middle-aged blonde
with two matching goldens,
(sometimes leashed, sometimes free)
the bright yellow spot
of a SmartCar, and me
always wondering just where
on the curvacious beauty of
a road i will pass it,
the ever-silent deer
who peer intently at my machine
as they stand cautiously
at the edge of civilization.

and today? a gift,
the top of the most tenuous climb,
the wind bending back leaves
and straightening out flags,
pushing against my will,
when what should cross the road
but a lone pronghorn,
its native spirit leaping
over barbed wire and into
the chaparral, leaving me to
finish my ride, open up
a starvation-induced chocolate
whose wrapper reads,
You are exactly where
you’re supposed to be

(i don’t throw it away,
its aluminum words
imprinted on the crossroads
that may lead me elsewhere tomorrow)

Letters of Idealism

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i see the sky saving sprinkles
for after my ride home,
and tears are close
to making my face fill with moisture,
not because i’m afraid,
but because the mountains,
so far, so close?
they’re touched by the clouds
i can’t quite touch,
their gray-blue beauty
my reason for loving it here

i read two letters today.
one from Frederick Douglass
to his former master,
one from a substitute teacher
to my principal.

the first? a slur of
nineteenth-century idealism
intermingled with self education,
shared amongst
twenty-first century students
whose idealism reads
in between the lines of hatred
that bleed through generations

the second? a slew of
twenty-first century truths
about our shattered system
and the bright light
that shines through
in my second home, my school,
the place where i know
the idealism can break
the mold of those same clouds
that bring beauty,
that save me from rain

Crazy Day

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happy hour tailwind
a door opening surprise
what a crazy day

One of Those Moments

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i can’t write without the wind.
i line up my alliteration
against the dustbowl afternoon,
the first time a great gale
almost forced me to the ground

it is one of those moments when
fear forces itself into my forefront
and i could forget where i’m going.
it is just me, my pedals, my perseverance,
and the dust that clings to every pore

i push on through a series of green lights
to the man i love
all the way back fifteen years, and
i tell him today (like so many other days)
of the ride i’ve had,
and in this moment
(it is one of those moments)
with the wearying wind, the look in his eyes,
i see my future lie before me

Arapahoe Road

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it is like any other day.
it is unlike any other day.
i strip in thirty seconds
and replace appropriate attire
with oh-so-attractive cycling gear

i have it all–
the tight shorts, leggings,
arm-hugging shirt,
fingers-enclosed gloves
to fight a bitter headwind,
helmet with its beautiful
pop-top blaring light,
oversized headphones
that won’t fall out of my ears,
my music. set.

i pedal hard.
the wind scathes me,
but the sun settles amongst
perfectly puffy clouds,
a blue sky spring
and a creek
with mama mallard, daddy duck,
so idyllic i want to
trap their innocence in a lens,
all before i reach Arapahoe Road.

i can’t trap it,
but i take my headwind in stride,
arrive home to three
bright-shirted girls
who make music of their own

he texts me later,
driving home from the ice,
stuck in traffic
on Arapahoe Road.
Lexus Mustang BMW Tahoe,
i illicitly reply,
i fit right in.
(bumper-tied-on 98 Hyundai)
he sends back a laugh
and i smile,
the picture perfect ride
as i crossed this very street
present in the forefront of my mind
on this day like any other,
this day unlike any other.

The Colors of My Morning

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spotlighted white half circle
against a blanket of navy blue,
shadowy mountains sheathed in pink,
golden streams pouring over bridge,
cotton candy clouds of violet,
calming gray threads stitched into
budding green quilt-work pastures,
deep-set pools of brown nestled
in five heads of beige curiosity.
the moon rests, the sun rises
to the colors of my morning

If I Were to Make You Mine

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i know you had it in you this morning,
the urge to pull me close,
to wrap me in your warmth.
i know it was there between each of us.
could i have spared more time?
could i have cut back
on the hills hovering before me?

sometimes i wonder about the miles
that lie between here and there:
how tightly knit they appear,
how curvacious and beautiful they can be

and if i were to make you mine,
would i have seen the shrinking moon,
would i have made all the green lights
that graciously gave me my record time?
would i have been the same person,
giving in to one moment over another?

these small decisions
made before dawn
are the ones that haunt us in the end

No One but Me

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i have less than five minutes
i promised i would write
and there’s no way
to put in five minutes
the twenty-three wind-torn miles
the moonset once again
(but this time it was all. mine.)
because no one in his right mind
would strap a saddle bag
filled with lunch, clothes, a laptop,
and enough brownies to
make fifteen teachers’ day
onto the side of a bike
and ride straight into a headwind
no one but me

I Am Always Amazed

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i could hear the howling
i had my gym bag packed
i longed for climate control
(i longed for you more)

throw passion to the wind
they always say that
because they’re not driving
into a twenty-mph-headwind
or feeling it edge along
our backs, our tires
as we ride uphill
faster than the opposite side
pushes down

it’s always those curves along the dam
trying to tell us we can’t make it–
they don’t know us very well, do they?
how i ache to reach the end
where i will have full view of the lake,
where you will take me down
the curvacious path
and rebuild the quads
that have longed for you all winter

i am always amazed
i am always amazed
by how connected i feel
(alone on you)
to the world around me,
how i see the water
and in it my grandmother’s love
for looking at the water,
(insert tears here)
how the right song always comes on
(“Sky Blue and Black” this morning)
how all my stress
slips into the howling wind
as i race for a better time,
how i love,
love,
love you

Stationary Cycle

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spring is near
i can’t see crocuses
but the pink sky
of fading dawn
as i step out of the gym
total darkness
no longer my closest friend
on my zippity commute

soon it will be full sun
i’ll strap on my helmet
and pedal past the church
over the hills
that any day of the week
can beat this stationary cycle
i will be a part of the sunrise
that winter has kept from me