There are some primitives who roam the countryside on two wheels
Adorned in snug lycra tribal wear, and sleek headdress for safety.
Keen observers note clan members’ habits.
‘On yer bike.’ Sings the whirling of their velocipede.
The Royals, race at savage speeds, conquer 60 miles before breakfast, daily
A vison of synchronised pedalling in a slipstream of joie de vivre.
Spittle fired at such a swift target would fail.
‘On yer bike?’ Mocks the display of their finesse.
The Chiefs, also lovers of barbaric inclines, pillage hills as a rule, weekly
To cycle is to ‘take to the waters’, keep mind, body and soul balmy.
At one with bike and clan, in wind, rain and snow.
‘On yer bike!’ Chivvy the pack in their camaraderie.
The Bands, pacifists against challenging hills, meander at ease, occasionally
Indifferent to tens of miles as spoils of war, love the bike-life.
Escape from the mundane in pursuit of freedom.
‘On yer bike.’ Is the romantic notion of their heartsease.
Martina Swift
© Copyright Martina Swift - THACS Writers Online 2021