from this week in 1987 (I
was 42)
Running along banks of the dry creek bed
on a path under eucalyptus toward setting sun
then across the bed and back eastward
under white full winter moon rising
the runner encounters passes from half a dozen
young cyclists whining on their space age bikes
in labeled armor and anonymous helmets
They are suburban safe unsupervised
revving up over moguls and through chutes in
the creek
they gathered in neutral under the moon
Younger admirers on bicycles group atop the
sunny ridge
Four times the lapping runner passes their pit
stops
each time stronger steadier more distant
countering speed with endurance
feeling at least a little more in command of
the old machine
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