best not to know it was 97 F
at the start of the ride
uphill, my legs pumping for France.
small roads twisting and turning,
hidden in forests and byways, the lure
of riding them, picnic in my basket,
a friend at my side
but I need to train for these three weeks
I need to feel the burn, feel my lungs exploding,
feel the heat on my skin, feel as if I can't breathe
enough, that my legs will turn to jelly on the next turn.
maybe I can make it up the mountain, with
my picnic basket and a bounce in my heart.
maybe, just maybe
if I try in this wretched heat,
that's for sure.