Tag Archives: cycling

Who does not like to see things being re-purposed, recycled, or reclaimed? Sometimes though, after the shabby-chic treatment don’t you just feel re-used?

Up Cycled.

We’ve recently taken a pedal into an old part of town,
It’s long been tagged as unsavoury and well run down,
But now it’s been all tarted-up, prettified and gentrified,
It’s been well flipped so as to show its bright not dark side.

For ever it’s been dumped on the wrong side of the tracks,
Here, even bad-as Hells Angels warily watch their backs,
The river runs high with rancid sludge and a ranker smell,
Even before the bikies ran out this ‘hood had gone to Hell.

But now the Victorian ruins have been lavishly restored,
The brick-work water-blasted, all rotten flaws refloored,
Now the developers can look at their enterprise with pride,
Cashed-up customers come a’flocking in from far and wide.

They’ve re-roofed the three-sheets-to-the-wind rusted roof,
The trusty developers reassure the tenants all is water-proof,
They’ve made a cash cow by scouring out the old Tannery site,
The lucky tenant’s leases are iron-clad and screwed down tight.

So, we dismounted our mountain bikes and strolled around,
What a fine array of whimsically priced fripperies we found,
A Tea Room charmingly infused with every blend of Specialtea
With organic free-range scones totally gluten and taste free!

Here, a hipster’s barber, complete with cravat, fedora and cheap cigar-
There, a ladies retreat, all sweet lotions, micellar waters, a stone cold spa-
Everywhere, wild-flowers, scented candles, potpourri perfumigate the air
Upstairs, a purveyor of pre-owned books, each volume precious and rare.

Behind the polished glass, hidden by glossy Grisham’s and Attwood’s
Lurking deep in shadow and dusty hibernation I spied the real goods,
What price the grubby Greene, what cost that long lost Crusoe?
I’d love to recover poor old Robinson but there’s only so far I dare go.

I admit I lingered longingly at the Lady Chatterley chastely tucked away
High above the wall of Da Vinci Browns and unmoving Shades of Grey,
We ended with a stroll down memory lane, perusing the Antique Shoppe,
To count the cost of junk wed’e once tossed away- I felt my heart might stop.

We’re not the demographic here,we don’t rashly rush in, buy and large
But we lined up at a ‘cantina’ and after coughing up the cover charge,
We laughed off our al fresco ale, our cracker topped with a sprig of rocket
Then pedalled off with hollow smiles, heavy hearts and a lighter pocket.

An Athletic Weirdo In London. A story that keeps on coming back to haunt me, you might say. (A bit of a companion piece to ‘Waking up in the morning with that dawning feeling.’)

Everybody Hates Lycra.

Most of the month I’m a good company drone,
Working assiduously away, like a dog with a bone,
But I’ve been cooped up in my little box too long,
The need to get out on a run was growing strong.

The spring sun was sinking like a bloody big ball,
But you’ve time yet to safely run before nightfall,
And tonight heralds the new moon, so big and bold
With its promise of gilding these grey streets in gold.

How mind and body yearned to be out of this cubicle,
To run free, unconfined ‘neath a moon bright and full,
It’s unsettling and primordial, this feeling, passing strange,
I loosened my tie, I went to the rest room, began to change.

Down the stairs, access the door-
The security keypad is such a  chore-
Then the feel of the wind in my hair
As I lope along without worry or care.

Bounding easily along I enter the misty park,
I run without fear of being accosted in the dark,
I might meet the odd ner’do’well, up to no good
But there’s few fleeter than I in this neighborhood.

Soon the park and the streetlights are put behind me;
If I lost my way in these woods who could ever find me?
I thanked my lucky stars for the bright enlightening moon;
I’d met others in the dark past who’d met with… misfortune.

Then I spied someone who looks well off track,
Someone for whom things were looking black,
A lycraed cyclist, the personification of despair,
Astride his cycle, wearing a most deflated air.

He cursed his expensive cycle, he cursed his wretched luck,
He cursed the stupid tyre in which a stupid brad had stuck,
His little backwoods trail had proved to be a bit of a trial,
And I’ll admit I viewed his predicament with a wolfish smile.

I lurked in the shadow, but thanks to a stray moonbeam
I was seen, and the cyclist let loose a hair-raising scream,
He bounded off into the brush, and I followed that sound-
The man seemed to think he was being chased by a Hellhound.

Perhaps he saw the mean hungry look in my lean hungry face,
He led me a merry chase, and I felt compelled to up the pace,
He fairly flew up a creeks rocky bank with reckless abandon,
One ping of a hamstring, he won’t have a leg to stand on.

But he crested the ridge safely, and I then heard a splash,
I leapt in in pursuit but my chase rapidly turned slap dash,
It’s no fun for a werewolf watching his prey skedaddling-
Left up the creek, reduced to whining and dog paddling.

A month later and I shrug off work;
By a certain forest trail I bide and lurk,
And once again the trusty moon reveals
The athlete I think of as meals on wheels.

…………………………………………………………..

If you feel, some moonlit night
To wander out for a late nite bite
Don’t chase and wolf down a triathlete,
They’re sinewy, tough, and bound to repeat.

©Obbverse