The position for the fastest descent
Just above 55 miles per hour the spokes sing.
I hear it with my crotch on the top tube,
My chest on the handlebars, my legs folded,
Pulled in close, the sound of the spokes,
Rises, a wail and a shriek and a whistle, with a
Flutter as each spoke spins up to 110 miles per hour,
Then spins down to zero for a millisecond.
The howl of the wind wraps around me, the
Angular speed of the wheels makes the bike solid,
Straight in a way it never feels at lower speeds,
For a moment I know there are four square inches of
Rubber on the road, ounces of carbon rim holding,
The tire and the tube, and my life straight up, flying
Down the hill, my eyes scanning for holes, stones,
Any danger and yet, I am grinning, singing with the
Spokes, more alive, drinking every vivid color,
Pattern, feeling. Eighty feet every second, then the
Hill levels, the trees stand up straight again, I sit up.
45, 35, 30, 20 up the hill on the other side of the bridge,
the
Momentum is gone in three seconds. I spin the pedals to
Climb the hill ahead, three miles, twenty minutes, silent
Spokes now stressed with load as I stand and push the
Pedals. Their moment of weightless delight, gone till the
Next long, steep grade gives them freedom, their moment.
