Oh, but it’s a race all right, trust me, kid, that

hill he almost managed to beat you to the

top of (“Rubbish!”) challenged him more than you, de-

spite all the picnic

 

stuff he made you carry in your Batman rucksack.

It’s a race to find all the spare parts, becoming

antiques, puzzling kids in the bike shop while you’ve

multiplied years like

 

gear ratios; slipping cables, missing

chain links, pedals going around faster but the

landscape’s keeping pace with his hunched shadow

even though you’re nudging his

 

rear wheel; love ballasts his panniers.

You imagine the peloton behind you, scattered by your

wake; while his has vanished round the next un-

fathomable bend.

​

Australian Book Review, 'States of Poetry' website March 2017