Mountain Biking
At the Turn of the Season
by Dale Neibaur
December 7, 2002
In morning chill, with steaming frosty breath
I mount my technic steed and turn my gaze
Aloft to where the mighty mountain crest
Is blazing with the dawn’s first crimson rays.
With summer’s softness past the trail climbs stark
Through forests burned to bones by autumn’s fires.
My labored passage upward leaves no mark;
The path is taloned iron beneath my tires.
Through crusted snow and ragged end of night
I rip, yearning for sun to warm my blood;
At last I top a ridge and burn in light
To slip and topple, foundering in mud.
We quest with passion not for what is real,
But rather for some inward dreamt ideal.