bards

Pedaling PowerBards
Cycling Related Poetry

See how you can have your poem on the web.
Requirements
1. Be a San Luis Obispo Bicycle Club member
2. Write about bicycling
3. Submit your work of art by emailing it as an attachment in MS Word format to aglimski@aol.com

One poem per person per month.
The deadline for publication is the 15th of each month

DOING THE LIGHTHOUSE CENTURY WITH EVY

come with us to bicycle one hundred miles up california's central coast from morro bay estuary to piedras blancas lighthouse just beyond hearst castle

i say come with US although at daybreak my solitary helmetted figure turning north on highwayone into drippy fog looks all alone but the truth is i carry evy in my head

when evy said she had prneumonia i said i would ride each mile for her and she is here for every crank of the pedals each drip of moisture off my helmet and drips from my nose is that going too far evy?

well evy tapdances to randy newman records slambangs ping pong balls with passionate paddles but recently slipped hit her head considers wearing a helmet for ping pong

she's safe under our shared helmet at south bay boulevard gloomy skies insist we take off sunglasses plus precious rear-view mirror we cut through fog ahead with motorists' beams spotlighting our orange jacket

we cut through mist mixing with high tide at estuary back to highwayone fior long pull up cambria hill where sun comes out so do my sunglasses. evy the poet is still here whe writes great lines such as GOOD SEX LEADS TO GOOD DANCING does that work with good biking too? eh evy does it?

tiny thigh muscles that never hurt before tingle with pain evy says to quit whining keep going and ignore bur pricking our little toe saddle cuts into our sit bones

last year i biked the hundred for my brother feeling poorly in missouri but better now so i believe my sweating panting up the coast does some good. i sure enjoy conmpany on this lonely early ride where spitting mist embraces us and sunglasses slide down nose at moonstone beach food-stop we celebrate 40.2 miles

last summer evy took care of her daughter's pigs while family vacationed but pighlets wriggled out of pen evy brought them home and will do the same for me nothing can be done for two dead racoons plastered on highway

we aim for 13 miles beyond lighthouse for turnaround catch up with cylist named cathy riding with a group she calls slo pokes. evy laughs because they are ahead of us but when they stop to visit sea elephants on fog-shrouded beach we speed on not telling them that evy is helping me

at the cookie-stop turn-around we are the first of the 100 milers to arrive. i tell volunteers i am usually last we munch on chocolate and peanut butter cookies while evy shares with me gourmet recipes that insist upon fennel.

we pedal on muscular tom in his hot-pink tights and jersey glides by with encouraging thumbs-up for us official sag-wagon drives by evy and i worry less about flat tires fatigue and pain at lunchstop we pile a folded whole-wheat heal with two kinds of cheese three luscious tomato slices pickles a doubled leaf lettuce salad dressing seeded spiced mustard when evy points out four different pasta salads. we spoon all of them onto paper plate grab a fork collapse on the seat of nearby picnic table gary the sag driver sits next to us claims remaining 22.2 miles will be a piece of cake

back on sparling coastal highway shorebirds hop sea elephants sunbath evy and i groan up each roller-coaster hill glide down waving to macho bikers who had climbed inland inclines on the hilly 100 ours is the flat 100 not entirely accurate a flattened skunk on the road sends us musky fragrance so strong i believe it might cure pneumonia

near finish line and shoulders ache evy and i practice lowering collarbones middle ribs pelvis ponts groin muscles calling it tai chi lengthening spine with pretend-hook on head pulling up vertebrae still dodging cars motorhomes tourbuses

we reach 99.2 the end of ride not 100 after all evy demands a recall but i find my car put bike in it evy goes home i start to drive and knees huirt for first time all day hey evy i miss you already

I FEEL BEAUTIFUL
(Dedicated to the Wild & Wacky Women)

i feel beautiful when i ride
my bicycle i am elegant
sleek strong even my route

becomes beautiful when i lean
into a curve glide in a perfect arc
circle the compass through
an s meander with switchbacks

my bicycle knows what to do
when i tip my helmeted head
toward the ring's midpoint
raise that foot and pedal high
aim my knee at a perfect
geometric bend i feel

beautiful when my bike attacks
a mountain pass   its gears snap
into place   together we judge
the terrain   traffic   pot holes
consider stored larder for me

to draw upon   muscles transfer
energy to the quiet   simple
machine   we take the hill

what of the sweat
what of the grime
what of the grease
marks on my legs
i feel beautiful

--barbara marysdaughter
(who bicycles under the
name of Barbara Johnson)

Reprint by Permission

YOU�RE NOT THE ONLY ONE

�...a supportive, cooperative, hardworking,
fun-loving, caring group of 550 members...�
�Joan Petersen, president SLO Biccyle Club

imagine a club ride with all members
starting at the Monterey Street clock
fifty rows of bikes ten abreast
it�s possible

one block of that street gives
each biker space to throw a leg
over crossbar   start to pedal
balance    become a critical
mass explosion   it�s easy
if you try

picture all the pedalers
first row goes then second
till 50th   synchronized
you share the road with tandems
recumbents   sidecars   trailers
baby seats   old bikes   trikes
shiny titanium models   SLOpokes
mountain bikes   beach cruisers
fast riders   beginners   veterans
young and old   to show you�re not
the only true believer

exhilarated cyclists   triumphant
cogs in something big   quiet
non-violent    we hope some day
all the world will join us
it isn�t hard to do

At least envision this fantasy
of five hundred fifty bikers
dream-like starting at dawn
in front of the Fremont Theatre
on the fourth of July
just imagine

-- Barbara Marysdaughter
(who bicycles under the
name of Barbara Johnson)

Reprint by Permission

The Wanderer
Jim Wimmer, as submitted by Norm Brown

         The object is not the destination, it�s not just the
machine you ride.
The ideal trip for me, you see, is to explore the
countryside.
         The wind, the sun, the scents that waft my way.
These things, along with scenery vast, will always
make my day.
         A small town café and a pleasant smile. A cup of
Joe, look at the map, this may take awhile.
         The roads less traveled, be they paved or stone.
You�re free and one with nature, while all alone.
         The little towns, amusing sites. They can be
different as days and nights.
         Many�s the �downtown� boarded up and closed.
Most into oblivion have dozed.
         Even a Post Office, some have not.
But all seen proud of what they�ve got.
         Tended lawns and houses neat.
They pay no mind to the dirt street.
         A shady park with playground stuff.
For these Hamlet dwellers, it seems enough.
         The peace and quiet lasts all day long.....

(Penned under the Pole Shed that passes for a shelter
house in the Burdick, Kansas City Park 6-25-00)

Cowboy-Biker Poetry

Tongue all swollen
think it's turning blue
How far it is to water
I haven't one clue

Lungs on fire
eyes blind with sweat
and it hurts--how it hurts!
right where I set

Sun's hot, sun's hot, sun's hot
I'm baked--guess that's my lot
I'd like to see the sag
My legs are starting to lag

What is this?
The finish around the bend?
Too bad
this great ride had to end.

John Herd

WHAT FLANN O'BRIEN* SAYS

Even free-thinking cyclists
surmount their wheels
from the left side

To progress from pedestrian
to starry-eyed biker
your right foot flies
over crossbar
thrusts starboard pedal forward

The left reacts
leaves this earth
spins sprocket
You free-wheel
and plod no more

Flann O'Brien warns against
right-field attacks
on the wobbly bike:
"it's tricky
causes pitfalls
sabotages your ride
becomes a conundrum
of inscrutable potentialities"

That's why left is right.

--Barbara Marysdaughter

*Pen name for Brien O'Nolan,
author of THE THIRD POLICEMAN,
Walker & Co. 1967.

An Ode To
The Women Who Ride

I am riding my bicycle
The road at my heels
As I slice through the wind
A mere sliver of steal

A garment of gold
Armed with fork and spoon
I ride for the Round Table
It's Wednesday-we feast at noon

I'm pedaling, I'm pedaling
I'm far out ahead
A blue streak passing
Was all that they said

As I streatch out my lead
Even Doc's fading fast
His Lightstead is flagging
It's not up to the task

With my arms thrust high
To the heavens they reach
It's France I must be going
My destiny to keep

But, alas I should slow
For that day will wait
I must remember the others
Who ride in my wake

It's time to turn back
To hurry them on
But, wait. What's that coming
I fear something wrong

They weren't there a second
Ago when I peered
But look at them now
All aligned like a spear

What's that they are doing
Converging it seems
Behind one single rider
I'm lost what they mean

Egad! it's a pace line
And look how it flies
Is it me they are chasing
Who are those guys?

I can hear them now
Like a Zephyr they wail
Cranking like pistons
As they close on my tail

I slow to a stop
For fear of my life
And wave them around
And gasp at the sight

It's Barbara and Joan
And Corry all in line
And the Portland Gals
Drafting smartly behind

I feign a flat
I'm fine! I'm OK!
As Maude and Liz
Pass by with a wave

Sylvia and Jane
On a tandem they ride
With Lanore and Willi
Flying side by side

Gail and Cindee and a hundred
It seems
Is it real I impeach
Or a wondrous dream

Like a vortex they pull
Each other steadily along
Then a whirl and a wave
And suddenly they are gone

I gape at the scene
A magnificent remark
The women of our bike club
One road, two wheels and relentless heart.

Beep! Beep! what is this?
Step aside if you tarry
One more coming
Can it be....Et tu Mary?

Sneakers.

ONE HUNDRED FOR MY BIG BROTHER
ONE MILE	At age seventy-two and one-third I bike one hundred miles honoring George shy of his seventy-fifth My brother languishes at home in Missouri two thousand miles away with ailments doctors can't name
TEN MILES	In San Luis Obispo I pedal at dawn with chirpy birds and fog on Santa Lucia ridges But in St. Louis I know my brother listlessly contemplates his bowl of oatmeal Does he remember our breakfast table with hidden shelves for yucky food like an egg yolk our mother finally found?
TWENTY	Jack rabbits on San Bernardo Road hop in front of my quiet wheels Two hawks on farm fence look serious Does George know that as a kid he was described as serious except by Gwendolyn up the street who called him hilarious after a few beers
THIRTY	On Highway One a tight pack of racers whiz by like big brothers--How ya' doin'? Hey George how come we never biked together down by the tracks where you and your pals hopped freight trains?
FORTY	No food to stoke my leg-muscle machine at the Moonstone reststop George I could go for our simple depression-days dessert of white bread butter and jelly Even with your lackluster appetite wouldn't that tempt you now?
FIFTY	I chat with fellow riders about food headwinds flat tires and remember how you called me Goody Two-Shoes when I tattled on you for playing poker in school
SIXTY	Biking on empty energy before lunch I feel depleted like you George The lunch crew is ready to close but there're two more after me for hot cocoa pasta salad sandwiches oranges Food fuels me to bike on for you for your renewed interest in life garden workshop family
SEVENTY	I sail into Cayucos with its beach families Children watch me wash my face suck on power gel to propel me ahead of a slight tailwind Remember the sailboat we bought together and fixed up to sail the dammed Mississippi?
EIGHTY	And before that when you swam off Mozentine Island in that muddy river but Mom forbade this goody-goody because kids on the island drank fooled around sometimes drowned
NINETY	Such a beautiful day for biking no hurry I study scenic seven Morros savor coming home The two behind are now ahead of this caboose I recall Mom crying at the train station George when you left for the Navy But you came back for college at Rolla so we both graduated the same day one hundred miles apart
ONE HUNDRED MILES	I see my parked car I did it George Wanna bike with me now?
-- Barbara Marysdaughter (who bicycles under the name of Barbara Johnson) Reprint by Permission