Riding In a Dtraight Line

Checking out trials sections
when you no longer own a
trials pushbike must seem so futile
to the family man with the paperback,
watching his kids play football.
But this longing
to balance two wheels on thin ledges,
weave through tight gullies,
hop across mossy rocks -
the reading of books
doesn't seem to anywhere match
the reading of a two minute
section of terrain,
be it over shale and
loose slabs in Back Cowym Quarry -
or back-wheel dropping
off larger boulders in Watergate Forest Park.

Some of the things I miss:
the physical warm-up, the giving
the bike the once over, the practise days -
screeching down sheer cragsides,
scooping up and over large plates of rock,
the River Derwent rushing by inches away.
The late December eight o'clock morning ride in Castleside,
navigating my way through icy sections, keeping both wheels low.
I miss the Sunday afternoons in Weardale
and those gale force winds adding to the difficulty
and the bracken snagging at your spokes
as you balance, psyching yourself up for
something you and the bike might
seconds later seriously regret.

Riding in a straight line
on smooth tarmac may be fine for some;
pedalling fast along a winding hardpack dirt track through a
stretch of forest is somewhat more adventurous -
but nothing compares to that little bike
with the super-low gears and no seat,
weaving and clawing it's way
around and over obstacle after obstacle -
hopping, dropping, shunting and
scooping over terrain some would
consider too treacherous to attempt on foot.
I wonder what it would be like to
go to biketrial championship these days.
Impossible manouveres
by some of the world's most fearless athletes.
Wonder how much a decent rig costs these days, couple of grand?

Things I don't miss: sciatica, skinned shins,
pulled muscles, dehydration, filthy clothes and bike frames
and the expense of replacing astronomically-priced
state-of-the-art pieces of metal every couple of weeks.

Right now, in Allensford Park,
back of a bald head against the sun -
should have worn a cloth hat for protection.
It's only April; I can't stand the heat these days.
Not much fun, the great outdoors
now my joints are wrecked,
RSI in both wrists
and a spare tyre round my waist.

Warm seat in the park.
Bare skin and tattoos,
the smell of the barbecue,
bare trees and more bare skin; Islamic men
sitting in a group of ten or twelve;
An elderly couple, teenagers in summer dresses.
A light breeze and a longing for days of half a decade ago.