A bicycle leaned forlornly in its rack.
Awaiting a rider to climb upon its back.
Who will it be today, someone late for lectures?
Flinging me around corners, standing on my pedals.
Ringing my bell, braking with inches to spare,
missing anyone crossing.
Or will it be someone freshly showered, sprayed in elegant perfume?
Testing my brakes, then giving me a gentle ride, greeting passer-byes known to them, while pedalling by.
On the way to a full English breakfast, before lecture time.
Or will it be someone capped and gowned, ready for an official event, rehearsing a speech aloud on the way?
A tourist might be tempted to climb on board, always tricky, as balance is dodgy.
Traffic signs are unusual, roads confusing, especially when it runs on a side they are not used to.
Night times I hate, as drunk or drugged riders try to ride me back to digs.
If I am, lucky it will just be a few bumps or scratches before being lodged in my rack.
Otherwise, I am left anywhere on the ground, once half of me ended up in the river.
Rescued by a poet, reading his work peacefully resting on the bank.
Some days are like that, you just never know who is going to climb on your back.
The days I like best are when I have sprung a flat.
A lorry comes along, I am loaded on its back, and taken for a ride.
To the repair shop, to have a new tyre fitted, and paint applied to any disfigurement.
It is my time of rest, as no one is allowed to mount the saddle on my back.
Till I am returned once more to my place in the rack.
©️2026 Penny Wobbly of WobblingPen
Image by istockphoto
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