Good Bye, Good Weather

This time last night, 'twas horizontal snow

And I could not see 'crost the street for it.

Today it's simply wind. I watch it blow

From safe inside where I shiver and sit,

(The vestiges of illness plague me still)

Behind a keyboard with a cup of tea;

I pretty sure this week is what will kill

Our Indian Summer. How long will it be

Ere just one layer of clothes will sure suffice

For bike commuting? How long till my skin

Can bare before the elements? Soon ice

Will force me to slow down; I'll pedal in

At half the speed to work, in darkness, long

Before dawn's chorus warms up its first song.

Morning Sonnet: A Moonlit Commute

The sun's not even reddening the east;
It's dark, but there is moonlight, so I can
See what's ahead somewhat, be it small beast
Or bungie cord in my path, or a man
In shadows and dark clothes, walking his pet
(His ipod means he still can't hear my bell,
So he's the greatest hazard) -- though I get
The Greenway to myself, mostly. The smell
Of rotting leaves, the tick of them in wind
That still is warm and gentle, my escort.
Soon I'll be struggling to stay disciplined
Enough to fight it, and the snow, contort
My face into a grimace, pedaling,
But now I just enjoy. It's long 'til spring.

In Which Some Mud Gets The Better Of Me

It rained last night, but that was long ago,

And there was little mud left I could see,

So while a certain wariness, I know

And in which I engage, is needed, the

Small lake within the tunnel did surprise

Me just a bit, but that was nothing to

What waited at its end, just where a rise

Begins, with a sharp curve to pedal through.

A sharp turn means my bike and I must lean

A bit; and just there where I did so, there lay

A mud slick. Ere I knew, my bike slid clean

Out from beneath me, yet, to my dismay

Still landed on me. Glad I broke its fall,

But now I hurt all over, overall.

In Which I Regret A Choice Somewhat

Outside the glare is fierce; a strong, dry breeze

Blows harsh across the asphalt and the grass

Is parched. Three-thirty; eighty-five degrees

And I can't get myself up off my ass.

My head aches just to look out windows, and

It's only June as yet. In some despair,

Remembering my thoughts, I understand:

I made the wrong choice back in April. There

Were still spots on the graveyard shift. I chose

These normal hours, must endure the heat

And dust both ways on my bike, unlike those

Who've made the cool of evening their beat.

Next summer, note to self; the wee small hours

Are kinder when one's of limited pow'rs.

In Which I Try Not To Fry

So cloudless, clear, with nothing but contrails
To blemish all that blue -- it's fine, but fierce.
A searing sun at altitude ne'er fails
To pin me to the pavement. How the pierce
Of rays so pitiless doth wound; I wince
To think of it, well knowing that the thick
And sticky layer of sunscreen I've long since
Applied will not avail me much. I kick
And pedal powerfully for cover. Can
I make it much more quickly to the shade
Than I would were it raining? I don't tan
But burn, quite badly; it does not soon fade,
The pain or redness. Pale and weak am I,
Who scuttles, scared, beneath the scorching sky.

In Which I Enjoy A Rainy Bike Commute

"I get a buzz from being cold and wet,"
Pete Townsend sings, and I can but agree.
How else explain the soaking that I get
When on a rainy day, I choose to be
A bike commuter. While the cars slow down,
Their windshields fogged and blurred, their drivers mad,
I speed on down the Greenway, love my town
For giving me this back route. Bits are bad,
I will not lie; the tunnels 'neath Dell Range
Are flooded and detours I have to make
Force me to deal with angry drivers. Change
Is good for me, though; just means I must take
Some extra care. Meanwhile the water pours
And I soar blithely through the great outdoors.

BONUS BONUS SONNET: In Which I Reflect On My First Way After Hours Bike Commute

At 1 A.M. the city of Cheyenne
Belongs to me and Deep Blue, it appears.
My only obstacle - the odd trash can
Placed in the bike lane - merely draws my sneers.
I'm warmly dressed and ride into the fog,
And crow along with Kurt Elling's best song
With fear of neither emo kid nor dog
To trip me up, whatever could go wrong?
I pedal happily, look 'round and sing
Right at the top of tired lungs with Kurt.
But mind the ice, Kate, on the streets - one thing
I can't dismiss. A wipe-out would sure hurt!
And just between us two, O reader mine,
Jaybiking 'gainst the traffic lights is fine!

In Which I Unwittingly Fight A Bungie Cord And The Bungie Wins

On pre-dawn bike trips many hazards loom --
Both real and real imaginary; some
Are naught but shadows; others, in the gloom,
May look like lurking muggers, but just dumb,
Mute signposts stand there when I'm close enough
To make that out. I know this and prepare
Each morn for that frisson. But other stuff
No mental calisthenics can, I swear,
Quite make predictable. Of course, in part
'Tis,too, my fault for moongazing right where
A vicious bungie cord (curse the black heart
Of he who left it; may he wind up there
In trailer park hell where such boobs belong)
Reached up and caught my wheel and all went wrong.

BONUS SONNET: Wet And Grey, A Perfect Day

A grey sky makes me love the landscape more;
The greens and browns of it stand out so well
Against the steely dome above. Before,
A clear sky held me firm under its spell,
My eyes turned up and lost in all that blue,
The lazy drift of clouds holding my gaze.
With that distraction gone, I turn down to
The Earth around me, taking in the plays
Of heightened color. Then, too, there's the scent
Of misty rain, and of the moistened soil
And vegetation. This is what I'm meant
To know today, which nothing now can spoil.
A drizzly morning's bike commute lays down
A tone for my day: bliss in which to drown.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Wish A Motorist Ill

Convertible driver, you funny guy,

While it's hilarious, sure, I agree,

To honk your horn just as I pass on by

You on my bike while I go 'crosst the street,

And laugh a brutish laugh at my small scream,

It's funny, too, to hope that some day soon

A murder of foul crows cuts loose a stream,

A rain of well-used carrion, right at noon,

On you and your sweet ride. I'd not so curse

Were honking as I passed your only sin --

But revving up your engine with a lurch

Right for me? Lo, the harridan within

Me wakes and calls down all upon your head

A shower of shit. You'll wish that you were dead.

In Which I Rejoice At Breathing Hard (And Tell You All To Get Your Minds Out Of The Gutter Right Now)

It's spring at last and time to ride my bike,
Deep Blue, to work whene'er I safely may.
The exercise is good but what I like
Is what I smell; a moving sweet bouquet.
It starts with lilacs in my own back yard,
In Cahill Park, and scattered all along
My route. Then others join, but they are hard
For me to name. A cherry? That seems wrong;
This is Wyoming. Dogwood? Maybe so.
The blooms are red and white and have a scent
That makes me glad to huff and puff e'n though
It's extra work to use my nose. Content
I am to pedal on, and deeply to inhale.
And love the Greenway's deeply scented trail.

In Which I Add To My Pantheon Of Heroes

It's waterproof, so it seemed rather wise

To wear the jacket I put on to ride

Deep Blue to work. But there was a surprise

Not caused by weather: There did slip outside

Its shoddy pocket some important stuff.

My paper brain, FIELD NOTES, it slipped out first;

My cell phone further on, and things looked rough.

But Howard Scotland, saw my book, reversed,

(He cycles, too) and picked it up. I'd grown

Already used to its loss, e'en resigned.

But Howard e- then snail mailed. Then my phone

Was Robert McIntosh's random find.

That things I value fell into such hands

Was good luck beyond reas'nable demands!

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Scream Like Kirk At Khan After Checking The Schedule At Work

I was to take my Jack to Logan Ave
Tomorrow before I headed to work.
I'd hoped perhaps they'd fix him and I'd have
Him back by shift's end. Lo the fates did smirk.
We've changed things up, as far as schedules go.
My shift now starts at six-thirty a.m.
The change was next week, I had thought, but no!
Tomorrow is the day. I cannot stem
The tide of screams my muscles now emit,
As, knowing that Deep Blue is my recourse,
And that all winter I got not a whit
Of exercise and that now, by main force
No matter what the weather, we shall ride
To work and back before we've really tried.

I'm Enjoying My New Work Hours While They Last

Before today, the sun rose after I
Had gotten up and dressed and off to work.
In winter, several hours would go by
Before it came up; now I've earned a perk.
My shift begins at nine like normal folks'.
Like normal folks, I go to bed at night.
Of course with this new shift there comes the jokes
About the lights and traffic I must fight
To get there in the fierce Cheyenne rush hour.
It's just for now, though, because I just might
Commute by bike before the year's first flower
Emerges from the frozen dirt in spring.
The greenway path is really just the thing!