A collection of pedalled prose. Written during training, to raise money for British Heart Foundation. As I trained to cycle the London 100 in 2017.
No train, no gain,But lets getthe train, home again.
Saddle sores,I didn’t see coming,My bum doesn’t feel like this,After running.
Fresh faced, fresh shoed joggers,Take to the early grass,like a cat to water,wearing headphones.
Windy walls workingmy legs to their core, thankful fingers hidegloved, steering the way.
Saturday cycles,The not-commute,Avoid the bus heavy roads,and the mass pollute.
These hills aint gon’climb themselves.But sometimes I wish they,would at least try.
Frame on frame. Rubber on road, Mind on the goal, Legs on holiday.
There are two types of tyres,mine and the bikes.Mine tires quickly, It’s tyres roll, or vice versa.
They got all the gear, but no idea,and also, many gear,plump derrière.
Shots have been fired, Bug shells crash and deflect,off my face.
Same same, but reverse.That painfull hill climb,Becomes a thrill fall.
The road kill lies down defeated, But still cheers us on and on.
The strings in my ham, now tight enough to use, as a guitar.
The gloves are off, no literally my hands are too hot.
Groups loop, Chains Spin, Breaths pant, Groups loop…
I’ll take you to my favorite corner,I gotta warn ya, it’s me favorite corner,Well that was it, what did ya think?
The sun shines high, above the road, beating downagainst my unprotected nose.
My eyes ride wild, across, up, down, down, Up, up, round and back round.
Push it to the limit,Ride along the B-roads edge,Didn’t look down, still got my head.
When the sofa is,More welcoming than saddle,I remember what it’s for.
Sometimes cycling feels like,the ultimate chore, likehoovering a 35mile carpet.
A cold sharp wind, Smacked my face, and slapped my knuckles.
Maybe these should get longer, As I progress, the rides,and the poems,Put each other to the test.
Personal Record, Personal Record,Personal Record, Personal Record, Dental Record, criminal record.
Trying to figure out what I need, what I kneed, what my knees would like is a rest.Shut up knees.
I seek the reassuring wind break,of sitting behind, your behind. so streamlined.
A chain of lycra’d legspropelled past me, up hillI join as the final link.
I don’t think I’d ever shave,my legs for a race, unless you promise I’ll win.
By mile 29 the mind has nearly wanderedall the way home, turned the shower on,and boiled the kettle.
The sun nods to us,and we nod back,grateful and warm.
Only an atom of aircame between us on bikes,and him in landrover.Wanker!
Hills are inclined to be difficult,it’s not their fault I know,but who else do you blame.
I try charming the hills,as I reach them,to go easier on me :)
Aggressively attacking the hills up,will definitely lead to them,attacking you back down.
Guys who ride together,talking about new cycling jerseys together,ultimately die apart, probably.
More badgers, rigor mortisedIn forever cheer,Line the sunny lanes.
Put the brakes on, the hill whispers,we’ve only just met.
The wood cheers, a light leafy roar,willing us through trees.
When your legs,feel like lead,Ride with your head instead.
I hold my breath, and so do the clouds, the hills pumpup their chests.
Anxieties fall off as,more riders join the pack carless roadspump our confidence.
Today the roads areours, solely for two tyres.
Silent morning, Rising with the sun, Riding with London.
The trees are raining,Under the bridges too thankfully dryUnder cloud.
Closed streets get,a rest from a constant A-B,a sportive massaging.
Roaring cheers fill, my muscles like a shot of caffeine, only less the cost :)
My savoured ears,By a brass rendition of BritneySpears.
People panting up, Greith Hill, I renamed it based onthe expressions.
Spectator lined front, gardens, feels like cycling througha thousand living rooms.
Alé Alé Alé,We Go Go Go, For Alex Alex Alex.
I’ve got more teeth, simply meaning more turn and moreenjoyable hills.
Tunnels acted as,underground saunas in a cold morning warmed us.
An unset seat leads,to a sore hip until I readjust it,
Roads dehydrated as we passed over them 1by1 30 thousand,take the same bends.
And at once the,sun peaked as we summiteveryone pinked.
Pulling up a tutu,Pulling up a hill,one goes down.
On your right!Call over a wobblersshoulder, drifting again.
It feels very abroadish,Like being abroad.
Stuck to the ground, Ride in the sky,Head in the clouds.
Oh sixty if miles could talk,you would say very little, did you see that deer?
The texture shift,plays another sound,feels another surface.
The road surfaced again, like a serpent from ocean,all wet, in need of resurfacing.
It usually feels like this,at this point. 60% towards the goal,but still forty percent more.
Each road delivers a new goal,Each road user aiming different,except today, except this road.
Remove the goal to,Open up the enjoyment,and journeyed success.
If muscles have, Memory. They can also forget,Mine must have Alzheimer’s.
Unfortunately at this point I'd finished the race and run out of steam. I don't think it finishes here. I'll just save the rest for another ride.