Bike on the Hook

The mountain bike

hangs in the garage,

rusting and withering away.

Sometimes I take down.

Most often I put it back up,

barely testing its pedals or

moving its chains.

A Decade ago,

it wasn’t so.

I rode that bike

through torturous terrains.

Up hills,

through brush,

dry creeks,

down slopes:

I conquered them all.

Yes! I was strong.

That bike made me strong.

But time can’t be beat.

First the tires went,

then the spokes,

the breaks,

the seat,

the chain

were at the mercy

of that cruel fate.

I was not immune.

Jobs cut my play

as did family

with all its

responsibility.

My time with the bike

soon subsided.

I didn’t have time for the hills.

I didn’t have time for the trails.

I didn’t have time to care

for the one thing

that made me happy.

I wanted to get back on the seat

and crank it.

To feel complete power

of my muscles pushing

that bike onto

challenging courses.

But maintenance takes time.

Too much time.

So a decade later,

after all that riding,

it hangs from hooks.

Now I see it when I enter

the garage.

And I think back of those rides.

And on those few fleeting moments,

I take it down and sit on it.

And dream.

But those moments don’t last.

My station in life is always calling.

And up it goes

on the hooks.

I keep saying to myself

“One day

I’ll take you for a ride.”

One day though

comes and goes.

Where did that time go?