Sør Ås Bîk Clüb

she wears a jersey
that shames us all
What will you do
it asks,
on your 70th birthday?

this on mile sixty-two
a record high day
where we pop out fully cooked
from sauna port-o-lets,
strap on our stinky helmets,
and try to beat the sun home

jerseys mock me:
sør ås bîk clüb
biker chicks

(with matching nest pics)
Ride the Rockies
and every other place
i don’t quite fit

men in drag
weave themselves up and down,
stopping to fix flats
and pose for pictures,
their exuberant rainbow
of wigs, skorts, and fishnets
bringing welcome laughter

the day begins with a sea
of hot air balloons
decorating the mountain-backed sky
and ends with free lunch,
an all-girl band,
and women who know
just where the road can take us.

Dear Road

we were strangers.
i was afraid.
you could kill me with your cracks,
i could lose myself in you–
you are high and low,
curvacious and straight-laced,
everything in between.

you think you can beat me,
sometimes with wind,
other times extremities
of heat, cold
stinging my skin,
beckoning me with your endless gray.

we are no longer strangers,
you and i.
friends is too weak a word.
intimate companions
who share the sunrise view,
are tickled first by snow,
who see each other’s secrets.

so i will pound harder,
fearless now,
and pedal all the way down,
gravity and every last crack
you’ve tried to hide
exposed by the love
that has grown between us.

Hills

what kind of work
allows you to pack up,
swim your way through the air,
and live as an ex-pat
for two months?

i can dream, can’t i?
instead i watch
as bills pile up, as
we take our daughters’ allowance
to go for a family outing,
and i regret
the long drives,
the friendly plane ride,
and every penny that we don’t have.

i wish my pedals would work,
would bend back the money
i should be saving on gas,
the money lost on a new battery,
a dishwasher,
food for our table.

i wish
that the energy i burn
in twenty-six miles
would be enough to transfer
to everything i’ve ever wanted.

but the hills?
they are steep,
miles long,
and keep popping up.

Farewell

Insomnia, guilt, and a conversation I had today are the inspiration for this post. Why can’t I sleep when certain thoughts creep into my brain? More importantly, why can’t I let things, people, or “friends” go?

It’s all about the brownies. If you had one day inadvertently come across this recipe as I did, you would understand. The scrumptious perfection of these brownies, modified by my specification of Hershey’s Special Dark chocolate chips and dutch process cocoa, make every morsel a delectable experience. When I first started making them, it was an occasional treat, a decadence the whole family could enjoy. But I was quick to discover that they don’t last, that from-scratch bakery items must be enjoyed to their fullest almost immediately after emerging from the oven, or all sense of richness is lost. And so I brought a few to work. The reaction was astounding, and people began to ask about them. I brought in a few more. Soon I was making weekly batches of brownies and bringing the entire 9×13 pan into work, cutting them up, bagging them individually, and setting aside corners for certain colleagues and the coveted “center cuts” for a special few.

So as I lay in bed just now, thinking about the F-bomb and my purposeful use of it under imperative circumstances when the whole FUCKING world ought to agree it is necessary, I started adding up the ingredients of my weekly brownie list. Fifteen brownies a week, four eggs, two sticks of butter, a bag of chocolate chips, one and a quarter cup of cocoa, a tablespoon of premium vanilla, one and a quarter cup of flour, two cups of sugar, one teaspoon of baking soda, fifteen sandwich baggies. What does it add up to? $10 a week, $40 a month, 10 months in a school year, $400 a year.

Now let’s talk about my coworkers, who have two incomes and car payments and student loans and childcare expenses and every other FUCKING excuse in the world to NOT have any money. And me, family of five, ONE income, NO debt (other than a mortgage), who rides my ass up thirteen miles of hills with those heavy ass brownies ON MY BICYCLE and specifically sets aside the best cuts for the BEST people, and I am spending $400 a year so that if I USE THE WORD FUCK ON FACEBOOK I GET DE-FRIENDED??

That’s it. Farewell to the fucking brownie list.

Door to Shore

she’s shoeless behind me
and he carries a load
worth a thousand pounds in gold
we coast down to the beach
(four miles from door to shore)
pedal harder home in summer rain
that tickles our backs
as thunder threatens our ears

this is the Vittetoe Express
missing a link along the line
broken into bright patches of light
as three girls, two chairs, two floaties,
one giant Camelbak,
and the love of my life
carry us home

Serpent

a black snake making its way
curvacious and thick,
scales glistening in early morning,
ropelike muscles ride its back,
snaking our way
slither by slither
amidst shiny pops of dashing-past eyes,
past the ponderosa pines
into thin air above treeline

it snaps its rattle
one last switchback bite,
a venomous sting near the clouds,
but we bite back
bask in the surreptitious sun
that mocks the wind
and begin again,
rattle on top
spiky teeth taking us down
until once again
we have conquered the serpent.

Breeze of Love

single women in spaghetti straps
men in khakis, collars and ties
linger in line for $3 microbrews
as we soak up the sounds of summer

girls giggle and groove at the front
forgetting for once they’re so small
beer bubbles in belly, beckons a smile
carrying kids through crowds into crescents

the ride home through Victorian
Colonial Craftsman Contemporary
bike lanes on every side street
brings a breeze of love through Lexington
lovely to love, to live, to meet.

My Sunset

Kentucky heat on a
new side of the state
(one that doesn’t give in
to early sunsets)
guides us up and down
hills on a windless evening

i grin,
back on the bike
after a week,
two whirlwind drives
six states over from
the mountains
as lush vines
thick-as-elephant tree trunks
and curvacious
nonchalant
southern hills carry us home

we stop
just shy of their house,
a perfect park
(playground and all)
distant trees
gripping the edges
of a burning red circle
that strikes
my sixteen-year-old heart
still beating lovingly
all these years later
that same sun
hidden by wisps of clouds
a bright mark of beauty
on the tired world
over the spires and forests
of Oxford
now reappears,
and i have no stairs to sit on,
no lonely walk home,
no desperate inquiries
in a dorm hallway
about what was missed,
but instead
my hands on my handlebars,
him standing beside me,
my sunset shared at last.

Our Day

in 3.5 days
i have climbed two mountains
driven seventeen hours
hiked 1.5 miles
in and out of a canyon
vacuumed the house
bathed and combed three girls
hosted eleven more
drunk seven microbrews
noted the Firefox spelling inadequacies
and noticed that
my friends are all friends
with each other
our kids play like
Fairy Tale Land
perfect combinations of love
and
my veteran husband
can cook hamburgers
like there’s no other option
but meat
on Memorial Day
Love Day
Family Day
Friends Day
Coming Down the Mountain Day
this is Our Day
the love i never had
the friends i never had
the love
the love
the love
all around us.

Denouement

we are a collective force
vying against gravity
mentally physically wholeheartedly
literally
moving up a mountain
rainbow of helmets
carbon and aluminum
water bottle two-packs
and pedals

we are seventy
and seven
single
tandem
working legs
paraplegic arm miracles
everything in between

and though she and i
fit in like two chicks in a bar
outnumbered ten to one
we still outpace some
and are left in the
zipping dust down the mountain
by others

but we make it
fill out our story
a seven-month plot triangle
fast foothill rising action
steep-as-hell peak one climax
slow-and-steady peak two falling action
and the two mile flat
denouement
surrounded by screaming fans
endless cars with bike racks
cattle bells
and
victory