Submitted by:  John Whitehead, November 2008

This entry relates to the past.

Category(ies) of this entry:  Bicycle, Poetry

March 2006:

The decrepit old man on the Hill

Said "Passing you's hardly a thrill

My name's Big Ring Bob

'Cause I don't have a job

And my muscles get worked while yours chill."

January 2007 (temperature 27 F): 

I survived a cold ride on my bicycle

Then arrived home as not quite an icicle 

The mercury dip

Now moves me to quip

When it's perfect for skating out, whycycle? 

March 2007:

My job comes with one welcome quirk

I get to go biking at work

But I lose bits of skin

To that rusty old Schwinn

So I wouldn't quite call it a perk.

March 2007:

If a pot hole or nasty wind gust

Makes you worry you're going to bite dust 

Ride my trusty old Schwinn

In a race and you'll win

Bumps feel smooth on a bike made of rust. 

November 2007 (Mix Canyon Road in Solano County):

In a valley out there in the sticks

We will turn at a sign that says Mix

If you think its "just hilly"

You will laugh yourself silly

When it feels like your bike's made of bricks.

March 2008:

The calendar lines up again

March weekend days count up to ten

Inspiration inside

Leaves me less time to ride

Please help me let go of my pen!

June 2008:

Sharp corners were turned on a dime

All hammered with no hills to climb

They raced with no pack

Nor a bike off the back

At the Steve Dunlap Trial for Time.