So I'm biking up this hill
because I strongly suspect
that my twenty-year-old figure
is at the top of it.
I can't see it from here
but it has to be somewhere
and I certainly have not seen it
around my house.

So I'm biking up this silly hill
and believe me -
I'm no Lance Armstrong;
Just a sweaty, wheezing mass
of fluffy flesh
balanced upon
the wide yet uncomfortable seat
of my old six-speed bike -
no adoring crowd
and no yellow jersey for me.

But like I said
I'm biking up this stupid hill
hating every cubic inch of it,
refusing to give it the satisfaction
of seeing me turn the bike around
to coast down
into the arms of defeat.

I urge myself onward and upward:
I'll just make it to the next mailbox.
Just to the next driveway.
Just to the next crack in the road.

Eventually the peak is within my reach
and then, finally
it is mine.

I stop at the top to look around
and am surprisingly unsurprised
to find that it is not my twenty-year-old figure
that lives up here
but my ten-year-old spirit.

I turn the bike around
and coast back down this wonderfull hill
my arms spread wide
like the wings of a gull,
the wind stinging my ears
and burning my eyes
and I am certain
that I will be right here again
this time tomorrow.

08/10/2005