Bicycle Ambitions

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I love bicycles. However, being the somewhat delicate indoor kid that I am, I have to admit I love them more for their aesthetic than for the experience of actually riding them.
I love the idea of riding to the farmers market on a lovely Spring day, filling my basket with fresh flowers and fruit, breeze rustling through my hair, my summer dress lightly billowing around my bare knees.↑↑ I love the idea of racing down city streets, sunlight glinting through the blur of tall buildings. ↑Or of riding down an idyllic country lane on my way to a delicious picnic with friends.↑↑

Unfortunately, reality would be a much less pretty picture: me hot and uncomfortably sweaty and out of breath, frustrated and hungry by the time I reach my destination, opting for little substance in my basket because I'd have to ride the stuff up how many hills on the way home? But what is that saying? No pain, no gain? I'm sure if I worked at it, the few miles to the market would eventually be a breeze. As natural as blinking. I mean, if these guys* could undertake a whole tour complete with musical equipment, I can really manage a jaunt to the farmer's market. Even Audrey did it, and she strikes me, as much as I love her, as having been a bit delicate herself. I really have no excuse.

*(btw, I'm going to see Blind Pilot on Friday--fingers crossed it doesn't sell out before I get my tickets).

For Poetry Month:
Going Down Hill on a Bicycle
by Henry Charles Beeching


A Boy's Song

With lifted feet, hands still,
I am poised, and down the hill
Dart, with heedful mind;
The air goes by in a wind.

Swifter and yet more swift,
Till the heart with a mighty lift
Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:—
"O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

"Is this, is this your joy?
O bird, then I, though a boy,
For a golden moment share
Your feathery life in air!"

Say, heart, is there aught like this
In a world that is full of bliss?
'Tis more than skating, bound
Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float
Awhile in my airy boat;
Till, when the wheels scarce crawl,
My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill
Must end in a vale; but still,
Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er,
Shall find wings waiting there.