I was trying to avoid my paperwork and came up with this — hope you enjoy…

Ode to the Road
(penned by Val while trying to avoid her paperwork)

The day was here at long last
Weather’s good, road’s dry and fast!
Can’t wait to get that spandex on,
Or maybe I can… the winter’s been long…
My heart starts racing as cleat meets pedal,
My legs start the spin and I start to settle,
Can’t help the big smile; been waiting for this!
Wind whistling, tires humming; this is sheer bliss!
Familiar aromas meet me as I go,
Yup – pig barn and road kill uncovered by snow,
I ride by that yard with the bike chasing dog
He must be asleep – or tied to a log.
I look down at my speed – oh man! Am I slow!
After months on the trainer avoiding the snow,
But time’s on my side; it is only spring
By June or July, I’ll be back in the swing
Why do I love this? My friends just don’t get it,
Don’t know if I really can totally explain it.
Why torture yourself cycling into the wind?
My hands sometimes hurt…as does my behind!
But pushing my body to almost its limit,
Then a little bit more – there’s nothing like it!
Feeling the bike take off like a shot,
When I stand on the pedals and give all I’ve got.
When climbing that hill seems like torture unending,
The reward is then realized in the descending!
And when I get home, my energy spent,
I think of the ride, re-live the event,
Remembering the fun I had with my friends
And loving the fact I cycle mostly with men!

at crack of dawn

there rode a peloton

of eight intrepid riders

from 52 to 206

and on to places wider

until at last it came to pass

and harbourview was immanent

with great relief did Patrick seek

a phone call of lament

and Paul did whine and Paul did cry

but it was all in vain

for Ron was strong and did prevail

even longer than the train

but Vals the one

whom this ride rules

for she did prove

that all it takes

is one strong woman to dominate

all these biking fools

by A.B. ‘Banjo’ Patterson, 1896, Australia

‘Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, `Excuse me, can you ride?’

`See, here, young man,’ said Mulga Bill, `from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy’s Gap to Castlereagh, there’s none can ride like me.
I’m good all round at everything, as everybody knows, Although I’m not the one to talk — I HATE a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wild cat can it fight.
There’s nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There’s nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But what I’ll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
I’ll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.’

‘Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
That perched above the Dead Man’s Creek, beside the mountain road.
He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
But ere he’d gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak,
It whistled down the awful slope, towards the Dead Man’s Creek.

It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek,
It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man’s Creek.

‘Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
He said, `I’ve had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
I’ve rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five pound bet,
But this was the most awful ride that I’ve encountered yet.

I’ll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it’s shaken all my nerve,
To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It’s safe at rest in Dead Man’s Creek, we’ll leave it lying still;
A horse’s back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.’

by A.B. ‘Banjo’ Patterson, 1896, Australia