First ride

Each day thinking soon, soon

as snow recedes from pavement,

water slips down storm drains

thinking of chrome fenders flashing sun

the comfort of a padded seat, a bell,

a taillight blinking. The hairpin turn

by Omand's Creek, the bridge,

the birdsong trail. Rush of air

past bare arms, magic of gear ratios,

power of these less-than-muscular

legs, my slow flight beneath arching elms.

That will come later. The first ride

is scarf and gloves, cold seat, cold ears.

Mere minutes till thighs grow stiff,

slightest incline becomes a hill,

and thoughts turn to how far

I should venture before

I can say that's enough

for now.