Writing poetry while riding

Eight Mile Morning

Nearly noon
Bright sky-high sun
Beams down as pedals pump
Cool April breeze pulse my skin
Though two jacket layers it pierces right in.
Which route to ride, I daily decide
To the right and down a slight incline,
Or left, toward the killer ½ mile climb
Oh, to mount it would be sublime.

With sun-confident joy toward the long hill I turn;
Surely with weeks of training, I’ll conquer this hill in a blur.
Amish children dot my path; black hats bobbing and school bags dragging toward farmhouses they race, for to be outpaced by the helmet-head lady would a disgrace.
Onward I pedal, past peach tree blossoms, little girls on a mulch pile mountain, raspberry bushes trimmed to perfection and tied to their posts without a picker of contention.

Past school house two; a baseball game in full force.
Bat contacts ball with a boom, pounding more energy into my bike rider’s soul,
For the ½ mile climb just around the bend!

To the rising hill I push. I puff to a lower gear to manage my pace.
A speeding trunk on decline, swerves, breaks and nearly crosses into my line.
Shaken by what might have been, I gasp, I sigh.
My energy sapped for reaching the top, “I think I can” delayed for another day’s plot.

Back in the seat, I rev up my gears
For smooth fast pedaling to mile number five.
Past goat kids grazing and lawn art lazing along this high ridge
I double my efforts for the hill on ahead remembering what’s up comes down again.
Sailing downward at a speed of 28, eyes intently peeled to avoid a pothole mistake.
My mind idly wonders to the birds in the air and I ask,
Mr. Blackbird, are there potholes up there?

On this eight mile morning, home I go;
Gratified!