Underneath It All

at the bottom of my bag:
extra socks and underwear
for those forgetful mornings,
second-skin gloves
for bitter pre-dawn winds,
a spare tube
for road warrior tires,
a mini air pump
to light my way,
and underneath it all?
an extra ounce of strength
packed just for me

There Are No Commercials

we have given up on society.
first it was the tv.
we still have internet, a screen, a wii,
but do we fit in?

now i will spend more days
than ever before
enjoying the beauty of a bike.
we will be the only family i know
with one car

it is crazy i know–
it’s my middle name,
the same one who married at twenty,
who said yes to them,
who writes these words
on our girlfriend’s birthday

but if you could see my world?
there are no commercials.
just the wind at my back
as i pedal home,
the lyrics i love,
the audiobooks i long for,
and the peace of knowing
we can keep those dollars
in our pocket
and our children will still have us
at the end of every day

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

Shoulder

on a shoulder between lines of fences
with horses running wild on my right
and rush hour semi-truck traffic on my left,
i pedal my way back.

it is an easy 13.6
from one downtown to another,
the wind at my back
and hills too small to notice.

i pass a castle carved from European idealism,
a racetrack with entry gates for betting,
an airport with two-propeller planes,
and more churches than i could ever count.

i leave behind the carved wood paneling
and molded tin squares of red ceiling,
the perfect Reuben sandwich settling into me
as i recall the girls’ museum thrills.

my lungs don’t tighten up like home,
and superficial sprinkling on this springlike day
isn’t enough to slow down the fastest speed
i can remember putting on my eight-month-old.

i take the long way back along Versailles’
minuscule two-mile bike path, and day two
of not a soul utilizing the town’s only attempt
at ridding us all of the obesity that consumes us.

they await my arrival in the cul-de-sac (not home)
spinning on their own small sets of tires,
and i slip off my music, place my baby on its rack,
and wait for the time when i can meet the road again.

Wild Birds

her words wash over my face
as if mine should be tear-stained.
the red puffy lids,
the longing that sits so plainly
on her freckled cheeks?
it is all too familiar.

i wish to retreat,
to push back the truth
that sits on the tip of my tongue
like a piece of vomit
needing to be expunged

instead i suck in a breath
and trap the words inside,
though they flap like wild birds
against my ribs,
anxious to escape,
to save her from a fight
she will never quite win.

i throw an offering instead,
though small as drops of dew
on the morning of the new day
that i can only imagine for her,
the new day i can only hope
she will one day have.

Shipping

miles, hours and days
pile up like coiled snakes
against the morning wind,
the dark as thick
as mustard spread between
the sandwich of day and night

i fight it, fight it through
miles beyond what i’ve time to do,
drag my feet into the
polished halls of a new beginning:
books shipped in, a perfect package
of hope for a happier day.

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