A Grand Tour poem

I wrote this poem during the Tour de France in 2009, the year Alberto Contador won the Tour.  I randomly found it this morning while looking for another file. 

Since I’m spending time, when I can spare it, watching the Vuelta a España, I felt like posting it now. I’m sure it won’t go anywhere else, so I may as well post it here.

Bike Dreams

I dreamed

The cameramen closed in

The spectators crowded the cobbled mountain

road

And I climbed with Contador

The crowd deafening my eardrums

The helicopters

And motorcade

Team cars

Graham Watson himself

On a motorcycle

Roaring

Drowning out Phil and Paul

Then Contador

Had a mechanical

With no team car in sight

No mechanic to lean

Out the window

and repair his cassette

At twenty-five miles per hour

So I stopped to help him

My teammate friends

Rebuffed me

Let him be

We’ll be too far off the back

But I insisted

We could help

And get him back

To the peloton.

Finally I offered him

My bicycle,

My pride and joy

My baby

My yellow and black and red steel

LeMond

He took it and shot up the mountain

With me calling

I need my bike back

When you get up there

Don’t let the Astana car

Discard my pride and joy

And I woke

Still missing

My steel bike

Checked to make sure

It was where I left it

Last night.

Doubted Contador wore

Campy cleats to fit my pedals

 

I made coffee

And went

For a ride.