Cyclists sit in cafés
‘Nothing compares to the simple pleasure of riding a bike’
John F Kennedy
Cyclists sit in cafés and discuss
everything that makes a good café.
‘The bacon.’ ‘Oh, bacon’s all the same.
But what do I know? I’m vegetarian.’
The price of tea. ‘And in a proper mug.’
Enough chairs. Warmth and cheerfulness. ‘Not posh.’
‘The all-day breakfast, three-fifty for
the small one.’ ‘She’d bring a teapot over,
and the beans! You couldn’t see the bread.
Proper bread (fingers spread) that thick.’
Fluorescent queue, flamingoes clacking restless
legs. Upturned helmets crowd the table,
Beached turtles filled with stuff: gloves and sleeves and
Glasses, buffs and beanies, phones and purses.
Rides we’ve done, rides to come and other riders.
Short today, a winter ride. ‘Were you out
yesterday?’ ‘Just three of us, Trent Lock
and back.’ ‘There’s that two hundred this weekend.’
‘Forecast’s bad, they’ve given rain.’ ‘Wind on the
nose on the way back. They’ll have to dig in.’
Outside steamed up windows, bikes lean, cabled
up to railings with café locks. ‘Come on.’
‘Sup up.’ Mount up and ride away.
Wind’s on the nose again.