As a giggle of spokes and beams, the bicycle traversed the shadow road and bounded up the polka-daisy incline. As a steady steed it momentum-galloped, chain at maximum torque, summing the preceding downhill with its rider’s anticipatory glee. Tyres as black ferris-wheels turned. Its suspension rendered bumps smoother than a merry-go-round horse. Then upon the lit brow, prettiest panorama all around, it absorbed the joy of the inhaling second. Ariah gave it a pat-pat before alighting to dream beneath summer-clothed boughs, ensconcing herself upon a grass cushion, her notebook and pen at the ready.
Anna and her bicycle were at their phlegmatic best as they swooped down the crumbling, grumbling path. 'You bounce too heavy! You strike too hard! You cumbersome imbecile! You metallic monster! Shoo! Shoo!' Of reply, neither Anna nor her steed made one. Impervious were they upon this most joyous day. The happy wheels gaily spun. The arc welded frame remained tank-strong. Its cherry gloss shone in the advancing dayshine. At times she trilled it's bell as sparky percussion to birdsong. At the anticipated fork it bid the curmudgeon track adieu and paid it no more mind.
The bicycle by gravest twilight lay abandoned on soggy ground, wheels creak-spinning as a weather-vane. A grief of clouds lingered low and black to earth so freshly scarred. Derailleur clogged, tyres thorn struck, it wheezed-breathed a dying pulse, flat tyres lined the ground. Wind wailed. Lightning shocked. Yet the rider, she was gone. Footsteps under heavy rain did vanish, all scents likewise the same. He crouched low to its pseudo-living frame, his heart pleading for a miracle, a clue, a murmur from sweet providence.
New-night black was the bicycle, smugly shadow ensconced. Its spokes whispered secrets into a discreet wind. Strain as they might, the words slipped ears grasp, dissipating as easily as an early fog. Tree boughs stooped lower, vainly attempting an eavesdropping. Moles' ears did unplug. Even beetles paused their scurry. Owls, heads askew, puzzled. For all knew the wind was a messenger, a keeper of the code, an encryptor for the fairy folk. And, upon that enchanted thing did ride such a mage, a girl of The Velvet Cloak. Yet should her metal steed be stolen, or otherwise half-inched, a cold dead thing it would be. Magic, you see, is a personal friend, a sense of love from beyond the mortal veil - and this girl was their most treasured one.
Bicycle tyres meet the road in a sweet love-affair, one that makes travelling the onward road so inviting.
My bicycle awaits, ever willing to ride in any season or weather, my steadfast iron horse.
My bicycle awaits as a boat in safe harbour, listening for its captain's command.
My bicycle covers the miles and though I pedal, it feels so automatic. My legs remain in motion as my thoughts stay in the moment, admiring each blossom and bird. These wheels have touched so much of Earth and always are so keen for more... this iron horse and me, we explore as if it were a migratory calling.