The bike store woman customer wore black shorts
And a yellow fleece jacket and had legs
That were not supermodel constructed
But could ride forever.
Health shone out of her like a herd
Of 1K lights without gels.
Her eyes were fifty five.
She needed nothing from me.

My legs were tired from driving the car
Twelve blocks from the house. Will I ever learn to
Stop treating my temple like a body.

I bought bungee cords for my old bags
To drag up and down hill, the old glacier lake edge hill,
My kamikaze mission to commute to work on two wheels.

She passed me in the aisle, her hair was a plain light gold
And I tried to remember where I had seen that colour before
And if I had a bell on my old bike I could cannibalize

To beat the cops and a ticket.
Why do these questions keep rolling into my head

What ifs and maybes, possibilities and trajectories
Simple suspicions of physical joy, where do they come
Even as the great wipeouts of past rides and falls
Rush back like the latest breaking news on CNN

Once you learn how to ride a bicycle
You never forget.

(June, 2003)