in all street cafés
freshly prepared mariscos
cheap and delicious
Spanish Diet
in all street cafés
freshly prepared mariscos
cheap and delicious
health
Road Trip Haiku #2
Smoky Mountain sun
brings another red morning
beauty on my bike
Sweat, Sweet
tomorrow i will barely be able to walk
today i’ve earned my immobile muscles
with three hours of intensity
that blinded me with sweat
which makes my double scoop
of mint chocolate chip
topped with thin mints
all the more sweet
Parasite
i’ve worked so hard,
many years of pedaling,
vegetable infusion,
(just a bit of sweet)
and yet you hover
around my belly,
an obstinate parasite,
one that does not
suck me dry,
but clings to the hope
that you can take over
everything i don’t
want you to have.
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.
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
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
Puncture Wound
you are the hole in my tube,
tiny as a pin prick,
a puncture wound,
not for one second
able to hold the air
i fruitlessly pump.
your removal is tedious,
leaves road remnants
and layers of unwashable dirt
on my palms and fingertips,
takes an extra set of hands
and real strength to complete.
i haven’t the strength
to discover how you ruined my day,
only the muscles to move on,
to accept that you’re now
lying on the floor of my garage,
a haunting shadow
that tries to follow me everywhere.
Ode to Wind
you can take my breath away
and keep me pedaling in your sway
but i’m not the kind who would give in
to a kick-the-butt, taunting wind.
you should know your metaphor
opening and closing every door
but really for me it’s just a ride
no matter how you try to skin my hide.
i will say that you tried your best
to strip me down and make me rest
but you’ve forgotten how strong i am
how rigorous i set my training program.
you’ll never know the miles i track
how hard i work to fight you back
how i tell myself that if i can beat you
that mountaintop will be mine to chew.
Commute
cat’s paws on glass
dented side panel
dash lights that haven’t
worked in five years
bits of wrappings
from kids’ endless
candy expenditures
taped-on headlight
zip-tied bumper
broken visor
windshield crack
of spider-ice
locks and windows
you have to open
by hand
broken cup holders
too small for any drink
radio numbers
you can no longer see.
and you dare ask
how i could layer on
thick butt pad
sports-bra undershirt
two long underwear tops
one long underwear bottom
bike capris
two pairs of socks
two sets of gloves
a bandana, hat, scarf
a helmet and headphones
a saddle bag filled with
lunch and work clothes?
oh.
you missed
the silver sliver of moon
the last star of night
the windless morn
Aurora’s pink fingertips
painting the sky
the top of the hill home
where the curving road
presented its framed picture
of the city skyline
distantly mirrored
by snow-capped fourteeners.
i understand.
you would rather be warm.
i would rather have warmth.
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