In my dream I have a huge lead on the Nantua/Chambéry portion of Le Tour. The hills are as nothing; climbing them on my feather-light Trek barely causes the slightest of humidity in my spandex. I and my bicycle are one! The adoring fans lining the road are aghast, asking one another, “Who is this imposter?” I don’t mind, because they are asking it in French, a language I have yet to attempt. I smile a smile built of conceit and excessive good health. I am the wind; the Mistral from Minnesota. The motorcycle-riding camera crews swarm about me as I enter the outskirts of town. Sadly I awake before reaching the finish line – the champagne, the jersey – and I roll out of my hammock. It is time for our ride, my wife and I. The only reality that echoes my dream is that we ride Trek hybrids (not $30,000 racers), and we will ride about seven miles at a fairly good clip. The Tour is a dream of my youth, unrequited. Ah, well… C’est la vie, no?
Storm clouds build hurdles
Pocket puddles gather frogs
Lightning fast we ride
It’s another Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub, and Björn, tonight’s bartender has asked us to write about a sport.