Poem Project, Day 2

Kinda hard to have a blog about biking and whatever and not actually ever talk about biking, huh?? Yeah - seems stupid. So, a brief tale:

Yesterday, I had off work and my car needed to be inspected. For those of you who may not be in PA, we need to have this done every year, not once every 2 like NJ or NY. Oh, and by living in a PA city, we have emiisions tests, too. If I lived in the country, that wouldn't be a problem. Such is life. So I have my car at the shop. Incidentally, for those on the east side of Pittsburgh, Bob at MD Autoworks in Wilkinsburg will treat you well - you can trust him. Bob declares my vehicle fit and calls me with the total.

So, I have to get over the hill and into Wilkinsburg to get the car. Fair enough - I have a bike, and the bike rack is on the car. Life is good. So I head off. Now, I'm no good at climbing hills - never have been. I know, I know, it's practice that I need, and the cure to the problem is to keep persisting in conquering it. I make it up the hill eventually, and start down the other side. On my way, I pass through a rough patch of road and POP....a flat tire. I carry a spare tube with me, but I don't have my tools - they are in the car that I'm on my way to get. Usually, I ride on a track, not the road, and I drive to the track...so my tools are kept there.

As luck would have it, I popped in front of a construction supplier warehouse. These guys supply things like industrial generators and small equipment like jackhammers, tampers...things like that. They have a maintenance garage to service the equipment. I need an air compressor and a wrench. It's 15 minutes before they close. Thankfully, the guys working are really nice, and they let me use their tools to change the flat and be on my way. 7 minute change. Not too shabby.

Anyway, on to today's poem. This one is for all those biking friends of mine. Shout-outs to L-A, Mike, Jay, Mayhew, Ben, Suzanne, The Clydesdales, and Patty (Duke sucks.) And I just can't name them all - so if I missed your name, please feel free to insert it here: ____________.

Breathe

Back is hunched, legs sore, air burning through my lungs,
hot and sweaty confines of shackles on my feet,
the mountain in front of me my terror,
for the pain is about to double.
Out of the saddle, a strange dance,
looking as if at any moment, I will simply fall over,
the effort of putting another foot down is so great,
legs are screaming.
The mountain gets steeper in front of me,
the road is straight and narrow,
the only obstacle is pain,
is me.
I only have to remember to breathe.


Meh. It's not my favorite, but it's not bad for 20 minutes of thinking. Most of my poems are hand-written - rarely are any "born-digital."

Thanks for reading.

The Fat Kid