October Ride

October Ride
By
Stephen M. Larson

We set out on our journey with
a rattle of chains and
clatter of gears;

You on your new, twenty-one-speed Italian racer,
me on my beat up, assembled-in-Ohio
mountain bike.

Pointed squinting at the sun, we move slowly,
fighting the wind at our backs, drinking the
cool morning wine through our pores.

I grin at you. Your spokes and teeth wink back;
the corners of your eyes laugh as your tires
whisper endearments to the pavement.

We talk easily, our words whirling behind us to
fall lightly on the grass and
melt with the dew.

You pull a stream of sunlight from your water bottle. It
splashes over your chin and down your throat,
each trembling drop carrying my smile.

Your long, sweet legs reach out and reel in, reach out and
reel in, tugging at my breath with every
crook of your knee, bend of your ankle.

Your skin glistens and glows faintly, while cold drops
trickle down my back and chest and
return shivers in their place.

I shut my mind to them and lick my lips, and taste
sweet tang and salt. It makes me think of
seaside days and fireside nights and you.

Silent now, we skirt a small, still pond,
the surface unruffled by the
knowledge of our passing.

We strain together against the hills and
coast with them and lean into
one another on the curves.

A solitary car passes. I drop behind you.
Your scent teases me with musk and
pine and delicate sweat.

We move faster. The muscles of your back are
taut with joy. I feel the strain
of keeping up with you.

We pump in ragged rhythm. I, not quite able
to match your pace, fall behind,
move ahead.

The tinted leaves of summer?s picnics and rain walks
lie scattered behind us, not yet brown,
stirred to brief life by our breeze.

You offer me your grin. My heart shrinks from
your laughter, but your eyes
hold no guile.

Your gift surges through my body, carrying
your joy to my own muscles. My breath
catches in my chest.

I envy your easy inhale/exhale, the smooth, dashing pulse
in your throat, even each sparkling drop that
clings to your cheek.

We plunge into green, flickering tunnels. Your body, unafraid,
perhaps uncaring, slices cleanly through shadows
that cling, cold and slimy, to my own skin.

Back under the sun, we mount one last
hill, round one last curve, to
see our goal ahead.

I coax my burning legs and lungs to one last burst
of desperation. You look startled as I
pull away from you.

I coast to a stop, trembling, triumphant, and look back.
You roll gently up beside me, with
a small, secret smile.


Copyright ?2001 by Stephen M. Larson

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