Odysseus at the Cycling Club
fangs snapping, jaws
slobbering, tongues waving left
and right their declaration of war.
hounded, rocketed
into the gravel, tossed &
twisted with full backpack
out of the saddle, craning
my neck at what the fuck’s
clawing pavement behind me.
bitten once on the left foot cranking
downward at top speed—
dog had chops & wits,
let go before the upward stroke
snapped its neck.
neither heard nor seen,
ninja killer.
folks say the stupidest shit:
“Turn around and pepper spray ‘em!”
country roads: giant monitor lizards
crossing back & forth between
barbecues and pool parties,
blind grandmother twirling a scythe,
kids throwing high fives
like you’re Peter Sagan.
never take your eyes off the road.
whizzing down a two lane black top,
jungle & swamp on both sides,
no shoulder, Yellow Fang’s heard
your rusty chain grinding from 50 meters out,
tenses behind a tree to spear you
from out of the gloom.
don’t flinch,
keep pedaling at speed—
oncoming traffic, swerve into that,
you won’t survive.
***
Death Bound
I was a tike when grandpa died,
heart attack, ‘71 or ’73.
Grandma had angina.
Dad,
alcoholic, smoker,
dead at 50, heart attack.
Mom,
heart attack, 50.
I’m playing hooky today, doing things worthwhile.
My goal was 100k before 11am,
grinding on my fat old mountain bike,
holding steady in the easy zone,
heart rate 114, 118, 112.
I turn into a headwind at kilometer 80,
push into the disadvantage.
125, 133.
139,
151,
155.
Ride harder.
Swing wide
into the oncoming lane to grab curves high
then cut low fast to keep my speed,
back & forth, right hand,
left hand through the swamp.
Past the mosque,
the water tower,
the sprint
through the Chinese graveyard.
I’m 57, lower back cramping, can’t feel my toes.
I gave up drink and cigarettes at 44.
Take the pain. 157. Take the pain. 159.
100k at the temple.
Still alive.
***
La Madonna del Ghisallo
It could have been the heat,
or an unexplained change in the
barometric pressure, something silver
bubbling behind the eyes. Dead snakes
in the road, clouds like an omen.
I notice I’m not breathing when I sit up
in the middle of the yellow line. Out
for over an hour or
just landed.
Hot tar & sulfur.
Bike’s
in pieces,
shirt and pants
shredded, yet not a scratch upon my frame,
no blood or bruise, dentures
still in place.
Shadows
balloon from the tops of the trees.
I put the saddle in my pack,
chuck the rest, shortcut across the berm,
sun behind me.
Home
before the dogs come out.
I overturn the drawers looking for a candle.
***
Prey
Some say the giant squid doesn’t even exist and that the images from 2004 were a hoax. I never thought I’d see one, certainly not five hundred miles from the sea. We had a river shark loose a few months back but that was just some girls amped up on yaba who hijacked a mobile aquarium and got bored with their swag.
I was out on my bike before sunrise, turning a quick ride to the market to grab a dozen eggs into an hour of gabby and groovy spinning. The heat the day before was satanic and the farmers’ fields blazed. I’d been cocooned in the dark with my air con and John Donne’s Holy Sonnets. I needed to get out. The locals know me, I’m cheerful, we wave, guards salute, the gal who sells me barbecue shouts she loves me. Someone always gives me food I can’t pronounce or there’s a goat I have to kiss. Was I breathing again? It was one of those mornings so pleasant you don’t want anyone to know it happened.
There was drag as I pedaled home, I felt off balance, listed starboard, thought it was the melatonin I took last night or my brake pads needed adjusting. I spotted it in the mirror when I was whisking my eggs, tried to act like it wasn’t there. Some stuff goes away if you ignore it long enough. I couldn’t get my clothes off, things I never would have considered eating got crammed into my mouth, forced into my gut, my head got dunked repeatedly in the cistern on my balcony.
I had a boil once the size of a gourd on my back that grandma had to lance with a red hot knitting needle. This was worse.
***
Only the Dead Pass Here
for Joshua
Except for the odd turtle or two crawling home
from a rowdy night at the roadhouse, I usually
have the morning to myself. I feed the pack
of dogs at the end of the road where the farmer
burnt down his house, then turn around and cruise
back the way I came to avoid the early morning
traffic of buffaloes and motorbikes on the main
thoroughfare that leads to the gate of my school.
It’s a straight shot about two kilometers to the
curve and I’m really kicking up speed. Dead ahead,
straddling the center line crack in the road, a tree
branch perched upon his shoulder, staring me down.
It looks like a seven foot tall rubber Gumby. That’s
what springs to mind, something I can tie around
my waist and drag into school to show the kids
on the first day of summer term. Prop up in the seat
next to me at the front of the room for show and tell.
Or a giant knight from a Grail mystery wielding a lance.
Swamp mist and field smoke from the all-night fires.
Temple bells. I stop but don’t dismount, rise out
of the saddle, balance the bike standing atop
the pedals, rocking imperceptibly forward and back,
switch off my headlamp before the charge.
***
James Fleet Underwood writes about memory, loss, and the texture of everyday life, much of it from the saddle of a fat old mountain bike. His work has appeared in Tipton Poetry Journal, Porch Lit Mag, Stink Eye, Beatnik Cowboy, and Blood and Honey.
