Middle-Aged Man in Lycra (MAMIL)
As the light rays
reflected from a frame
of aluminium painted in a hue of greys
My memory ignited like a flame
The flame covered my vision
As my eyes opened for the first time
I didn’t know what the world was, but it’d have been treason
If I hadn’t stared more at the three-wheeled wonder that never stopped to chime
My first love had a saddle
and a handle that was sleek
It was more beautiful than all twaddle
that all adults did week after week
As I grew, I wanted to know its history
Who invented this marvel?
When I finally did put a rest to the mystery
Into the jaws of time I did manage to travel
Baron Drais’s draisine or dandy horse
was the earliest known bicycle
A beauty whose origins made me pause
In infinitesimal awe of the chronicle
When men used horses to go about
‘In the year without a summer’ when many were killed
His mind was the factory for an invention, a standout
So much that business boomed and people were thrilled
Today’s world, acquainted with the Wright brothers and their fame
But one would be astounded to know of
the brothers, Oliver and Oliver
Along with the Mischaux company and its name
For the mass manufacturer was the first to deliver
It has had probably more names than the legs of a centipede
More than any we’d find in any dictionary
From Laufmaschine to velocipede
And penny-farthing and boneshaker to ordinary
With so much known of the past
I felt contentment flowing in every vein
As I climbed onto it as if it were a ship’s mast
The routine of pedaling was forever imprinted in my brain
Every morning I would roam
In the parks and feel the cool breeze
Gently flirting with me till gloam
Yet I couldn’t let it seize
The moments between us
My Bicycle, Bucephalus and me
And my love for cycling, pious
As we swayed from tree to tree
It’d feel as though time had taken a nap
I would do random wheelies and an occasional endo or rather, a stoppie
Sometimes falling over but I kept going lap after lap
All seemed peaceful until bullies made me weepy
They kicked at me with a football and I fell
They broke the bicycle that was most dear
Pain crept like fire and my eyes would swell
So much that it took a while to overcome the fear
My first love was torn
Into pieces that couldn’t be joined again
None could replace it, for with it were my memories born
Only an image remained now, and the object slain
My parents did all they could
An exact replica as well failed to help me heal
Time was the ultimate doctor that would
make me realise the love for cycling I had that no bully could steal
And as I turned from boy to man
Less fun-seeker and more baroudeur
My ears heard of Tour de France and there was no bigger fan
than me, waking up before the Sun to catch all the grandeur
I used to worship Henri Descrange,
The brain behind the event
Which would for an eternity change
my goals, in search of which I went
I wanted to be an all-rounder
Whether flat or rough, whichever terrain
I wished to ride like a glider
Smooth and easy to the eye, against wind and in rain
Improving the cadence
I no longer remained a brick
I was now a grimpuer in every essence
And had mastered the immortal trick
On spring mornings, I’d witness an echelon
For cycling had become a sport
Men and women, many would take part in the Athlon
Most would simply hit the wall, tired and would abort
The flame rouge would no more hide
the fast finisher who had stayed silent
for most of the race but now he’d slide
ahead of all and win, as vultures gaped from the pavement
Such was cycling a wonder
A treat for the mind and health
“How can anyone dislike it,” I would ponder
So much that it meant more than any wealth
Many celebrate the World Bicycle Day on 3rd June
It’d be a visual treat to see vehicles less
and cycles more, I wish it’d happen soon
For pollution surely is bound to leave us in a mess
A day which could be begun on two wheels
and paddles without any smoke
Even the birds would pay a visit to the genteels
Who shall ditch the machine and believe in their legs and its stroke
Every breath we’d inhale would be more pure
And every minute we’d live filled with vigor
It’d possibly be the most efficient cure
For laziness and energy that’s everywhere meagre
As a middle-aged man in Lycra
Who has never lost his first love
Regardless of the tired knee and it’s fulcra
The track and the wheels fuel the calves till I enter death’s alcove
