On Cycling

On Cycling
For Asher ben Aaron ben Moshe Yosha

I.

My father instilled in me the joy of cycling,
the freedom to move under my own volition
in whichever direction I chose
at whatever pace I could manage.

The quiet hours spent together
pedaling along the Santa Ana River,
a safe straight flat path from our home
to the beach four miles South.

Throughout my childhood and teenage years,
we both found peace and respite
silently seated in our saddles--spinning,
watching people, birds, clouds, surfers, waves
__--the asphalt slowly passing.

We'd take a day and make the sixteen mile round trip
(many weekends we rode it twice)
to Balboa Island and back
where we'd play video games, eat Penguin's and walk the pier together.

I appreciated that time spent
with the wind curling through our hair,
the sweet smell of salt in the South breeze
as we'd watch dowitchers, stilts and egrets
in the wetlands along the river path.

For him, this was an escape from miles of twisted freeways
he daily found himself negotiating
as he peddled scissor jacks, tilt ups and floating forms
for Aluma Systems, Burke, Simons--thieves of his time,
our family's primary means of survival

How different the pushing of crank arms
the pulling of break levers and balance
From the pushing of accelerator and brake pedals,
the pull of slow moving traffic

___late for a deal
___get out of the way
___the client's waiting
___forty five minutes, an hour or two
___down the 5
___the 405
___the 10
___the 210
___to Compton, to Rialto, to Ventura, to San Diego

How different the sights and sounds along the river
the steady pace of the ride
the wind in the hair
the miles and minutes slipping away easy


II.

For me, just a boy,
I'd often not appreciate the long hauls against the wind,
I'd beg him (or force him rather) to pull me a ways,
I'd grab on to his seat post and hold on, let him pull my weight.

His calves bulged--
___I always admired those calves
___as big as my legs at their widest girth
___bigger, in my childhood imagination
___so powerful
___so freeing
His pace slowed slightly.

He'd complain a little,
laugh at me
then teach me to "draft" him-
to ride real close behind him and let him cut the wind.
It worked sometimes,
other times, I'd complain,
force him to stop for more breaks.

In time, this too became my solace
as I'd head out alone on my weekends
to ride the river path and the board walk down
through Bolsa Chica Wetlands, past the Huntington Pier-

Sometimes I'd go out just to put miles on the bike,
to get some space, make room for thoughts
through Newport, the backbay, PCH
___tucked tight
___alone and quiet
___free
___joyful

I dreamt of riding to the distant San Gabrial Mountains,
visible through the haze only on rare days
when the Santa Ana winds blew from the North
or after an infrequent rain.

Dreams have a way of building like that;
once simple goals are attained,
mountainous ones lie in wait just behind--
they unfold as does our life's potential.

For these things and many more
I owe my father much gratitude.
I think of him and thank him
with every push and pull
___of these crank arms
___of these bulging legs
___of my heart's steady rhythm
for this freedom.

© Jamie Yosha, 2008, Pedaling down the road somewhere in Thailand

[Note: this is a work in progress. Blogger changes the formatting of the poem, the ___ represent spaces Blogger is unable to make]