the mists of my mind

When I ride my bike
on familiar routes
where grade is noticed
in the burn of thigh
the gasping of lung
the pounding heart of ear

and hills are rendered
in the blurry sweat
of salt released
frailing
precious
drops
escaping
from my bowed chin

I'm not riding the road
as much
as the memory
of the road,
is riding me

if you understand this
then you know
my fear
my reluctance
to saddle up
mount my steed
and ride among the eidolons
of corners not cut
and downhill gambits lost

lost as the lycra shredded
and asphalt embedded
tattooed scars
on hips and elbows
a little less
of body
a little more
in mind
these heavy
memories
these stained
neurons
paths woven, my
knots of remembrance

of those moments
when control surrendered
and the second
from air to ground
defies proper accounting

but most of all,
perhaps the memory
most haunting,
forever the shadow
on my wheel,
of the rider
who rides now,
only in the
mists
of
my
mind