©2017 by Helen Simpson Ink. Proudly created with Wix.com

The Bicycle

 

 

Here she is again. Edging past. Going nowhere in particular. Head full of her own annoyance. Looking everywhere, seeing nothing. Especially not me. Outmoded, slow, hard work. And in the way. Of everything that she thinks is important. Something to kick against. That won’t hurt. Or leave.

 

I am the road less travelled. Strong. Always going forward.

 

Keeps hanging back that girl. Lagging behind. Nothing to laugh about. Head down. Looking to walk. Or catch a bus. Must be a problem with her inner tube.

 

I am the road less travelled.  Strong.  Always going forward.

 

And since when did fresh air and exercise become such a crime? See everything. See everybody. Go anywhere. Rain or shine, here I am, ready to face the world. Never complain.  No load too heavy; no distance too far. Bloody miracle-worker!  

 

I am the road less travelled. Strong. Always going forward.

 

We’re a good team, though. Been together since the old days, through thick and thin. And somebody’s living room window:  downhill racing, brakes failed. Lucky escape – no real damage – until father found out. Memory fading, but can still feel the thrilling headlong rush into tomorrow. Before the shock of too many todays. And arriving in yesterday.

 

I am the road less travelled. Strong. Always going forward.

 

But we two keep going. After all, it’s not as if the young one’s going to change anything. With this exhausting vigil for what might have been. He’s not interested in forgiveness. Putting things right. Redemption. He’s a collector: vows, futures, daylight. A connoisseur. His life work. Let him go. Let him go.

 

I am the road less travelled. Strong. Always going forward.