Daring dinky on a hot day

Who knew the gushing wind could be that loud

when you're riding a bike and feeling so proud?

"It's called a dinky," she told me, enthusiastic face.

"Hop on, it's the fastest way to get to my place!"

Her brown legs pumped the pedals in time

as we rounded corners, dangerous, sublime.

I held on to her warm, firm waist tightly,

perched on the seat behind, I was scared, only slightly.

Her school sweater was scratchy wool like mine,

moist now, because the sun blazed, blue sky, fine.

My mouth was dry but a pleasant taste,

salty, minty even, as I gripped her waist.

Eucalyptus scent hung in the air, crisp and pristine.

Everything smelled new as if scrubbed blisteringly clean.

She was saying something now, but it was lost

as in the wind, our ponytails and cares were tossed.

Benches, bus stops, flaxen sidewalk weeds a blur

as we raced on by, precarious as we were.

Gravel crunched under our tires

as excitement flashed in breast like fires.

I was just 14 and I had a new best friend,

together swiftly as we rounded that last bend.