The work week has started, which means I'm back to a little biking and perhaps less writing.
Is it possible that the biking pumps up the endorphins, and then I'm so blissed out that I don't need to pursue a creative outlet? That's kind of scary. Let's not go there.
My little bike poem has not progressed, but when I bike I think about writing, and I also think about my stepson Jamie, who is a big-time cyclist.
So in the spirit of biking and writing and occasional poetry, I thought I'd share a poem that I wrote years ago for his birthday, when he and his Dad were in training for the annual Seattle-to-Portland ride. (It's an old poem; Jamie's 27 now.)
Rubber taunts the road
as you pedal up hills, over bridges.
The first warm day in a week refuses
to loosen its grasp of the dramatic.
A gull wing flashes white
against the dark berm of watercolor cloud
you race toward
the way you passed your father
a mile back, legs pumping strong,
lungs fired with a smack of salt air.
Up ahead the sky bends pale
and you push harder
into the clear unknown.