A Bicycle Poem


If calculated a moment after the Big Bang,
the probability of a two-wheeler would have
approached zero; yet, in that mélange
of exploding gases, the bicycle was no
less inevitable than the starfish, the
Punic Wars, or the pneumatic tire.
 
Few articles made of Democritean
atoms ever become Platonic ideas,
impeccably evolved, any innovation
bound to be a case of Schlimmbesserung.
Perfection ought to leave us awestruck:
a Stradivarius violin, the Starley Rover.
 
A few lessons learned:
Right of Way = Avoirdupois.
Virtue’s price is vulnerability.
Phallic road-nails long to penetrate
soft round tires—usually the back ones.
There’s always a bike that’s
lighter and someone faster.
Even if some jerk in an F-150 isn’t positive
he owns the road, he’s damn sure you don’t.
You’ve got to toil for your thrill:
uphill takes longer than downhill.
 
Fraternité, sororité--
the little nod, the tiny wave.
Et liberté—you aren’t required to
nod, not obliged to wave.
 
Earbuds pumping out Brahms’ Second Serenade
or Soler’s Fandango as you outstrip mosquitos
on a Sunday morning—a moving Mass, solitary
Sabbath—biking past the SUVs arrayed outside
St. Aiden’s, communing with I-Pod, sky, and road,
the Camelbak preserving cold, sacramental water,
knees, hips, and muscles all in proper working order: 
on the seventh day you pedaled and it was good.
 
One blustery afternoon brought unexpected rapture,
unearthly silence-in-noise and stasis-in-motion.
Your pace fell into a sudden alignment of
speed and direction with the winds; for ten
seconds, you were at one with the Anemoi,
matching the gust still whipping branches,
bending grasses, whirling leaves. In your
bubble all was still as Lake Weishan at dawn.
 
At first it seemed impossible to stay up.
What?  Me?  On two listing, wobbly wheels?
But then a grown-up launched you down a hill
and terror flipped to exaltation.  You wouldn’t
get off until dinnertime, woke up early the next day.
After years of biking, you’re certain you can’t fall.
You were wrong then and you’re wrong now.
 
 
​
Here are some lighter bicycling verses.  Each year, on taking my first ride of the season, I send one of these to my grandsons.
 
Opa’s First Bike Ride of Summer


I rode my bike up to the hills
where Wakefield joins the Jolly Fens; 
there the cows breathe through their gills
and lawyers write with fountain pens.
 
Fen children are frequently yellow
but some are mauve, and some have stripes— 
like Rex Doumal, an Oxford fellow
who spends his Sundays hunting snipes.
 
For lunch I had roast beast and rice
washed down with a root-beer float
(Fen food begins with R I suppose),
served by Fen Castle’s rusty moat.
 
Lanes in the Fens are lined with oaks
and every house has its magic tree
bent low with plums or cash. Fen folks
are friendly—they all waved at me.

       © 2018 Robert Wexelblatt​