Up Front
I wouldn’t want her job.
Riding up front.Leading a tour of bicyclists—
some who hadn’t ridden a bike
for at least half her lifetime.
As we practiced on bulky electric bikes
and a woman crashed, cutting her lip,
did our leader wish she stayed in bed?
As she led us through downtown,
did she imagine us being hit by cars,
or running over pedestrians,
or startling horses drawing carriages?
As we passed the park
could she picture us plowing into a peacock,
like I almost did when it popped out
from behind a parked car?
When her tires rumbled over loose gravel
did she cringe,
her ears alert to the sounds behind her?
When we flew down hill,
did she hold her breath?
When she waited
for the short green light,
did her heart race?
When we returned to the shop,
and an elderly gentleman hit the throttle
and ran his bike up the back of her truck,
what was she thinking behind that half smile?
No, I wouldn’t want her job.
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