Why Do I Ride??

Will this sodding incline never end? Each pseudo-summit rises round the bend. Flats false as politicians promise rest, Yet burning lungs and thighs attest: The sweat it took to reach this spot; The gradient never reaches nought.

My fists are bloodless, clenched on bars I shift my weight back to my arse Relax a bit and smooth my stroke, Not crush and burn like coke The metatarsals in my feet. Damn the pot holes on this street!

When was it I last ate? My stomach's empty, shrunken state Can barely take a morsel, I pop a black Fruit Pastille; A surge of currant citrus slakes A mouth as dry as desert lakes.

I pull the pedals up a bit To ease the burning in my feet And spikes of lightning rip The thigh, as cramp takes grip. I bite my tongue and push on through. Divert the brain, with agony anew!

Bless the slightest levelling out. Tick off each smallest count Of distance. Sing. Shout. Do anything if energy persists To bear the aching wreck of wrists Arms, shoulders, back, The body twisting on this rack Where is la volupté, the bliss? Why do I ride? For this?