Winter Biking: Poetic
Winter Biking: Poetic
Image: an east-facing panorama of a Chicago alley view at sunset: the backs of multi-unit buildings, a blurry edge of pink and yellow fading into gray on the horizon, a tiny dot of the moon, and on the far left, the Sears Tower and skyline in the distance.
This is the second of two pieces on winter biking. The first, a practical list of 5 principles for winter biking, is here. Now comes a poem I wrote in 2017 and first put up as a Facebook post. I hadn’t looked at it in years, and when I came back to it, I said to myself, Not bad, Nora, not bad. Don’t quit your day job or nothing but go ahead and newsletter the fuck out of that shit. Jk jk, actually, I was tempted to make edits or even a full new draft. But then I figured I’d let past Nora stay true, preserved in amber til life found a way in this here re-share, whether or not I still agree with all of it.
Click here to access the audio recording of this poem.
THIS IS MY ODE TO WINTER BIKING.
The truth is, I love it.
And I expect the others do as well.
Not to say your compliments to our hardcore go unwelcomed,
but in case you think this martyrdom or sacrifice, it’s not.
I was raised to savor heroes, and to aim to favor them.
Robin Hood in fox-form sifting gold through Prince John’s grille,
Han Solo freezing over even as his heart fulfills,
Trinity, exhausted, somersaulting down a staircase, get up and running still.
I’m none of these, of course.
Masculinities of lore,
high expectations at the fore,
protagonizing to the core:
Check all that. It’s 2017 and I’m a white kid from Chicago trying to pay my bills, find some purpose, and make sure as many other people as possible can do so too. This shit is basic and the floor is do more.
That being said,
alignment is worthwhile.
And on the bike,
in charge of my ride,
termiting the grind,
no waste beyond life,
no fee for my speed,
no eyes on a screen,
no wait on the street,
just two hands and two feet underneath me, holding something I chose,
ass against a most reliable partner while the LED glows,
I remind myself that I like to remember what’s possible,
and I like to and can move toward it.
And cold, no less.
13 degrees out and dry, I feel my blood
warmer than ever and my heart
more faithful than ever realizing
the simple wildness that it’s possible.
A wildness of possible that spirals out and on.
Base layers seem to live up to their name.
This time of year I find my last loyalty to leggings.
One pair from Nordstrom Rack I never wear.
One from an ex’s mom.
One from a friend.
There’s an Under Armour shirt my last cis boyfriend gave me; it’s camo
and maybe came from his ex and no longer accommodated his deltoids
and soon won’t mine.
And there’s a black one from the men’s rack at the Unique
in the suburbs near a loved one’s parents’ place.
The inside pair of gloves my brother gave me,
the inside socks I found brand new in the dressing room after a show,
the inside hat was also from Chris; he ran a bike shop back in the day;
and these multiple socks, multiple gloves, multiple hats, multiple sleeves
collect like any cast of multiple siblings, multiple loves,
multiple friends, multiple parents,
and sheath me at the right temperature. At the right time.
That shit is cozy.
And then there’s the joy of lateness.
Of certainly I could have left more time, yes, let’s plan on that for the future,
but I know how to get through this intersection fast
and sliding through yellows to arrive in the nick
I feel my ribs heaving alive and successful sweat on my sternum
and it feels good and I made it.
And then there’s the joy of after,
remembering the best place on the route to score 600 calories cheap and fast
and wanted:
falafel wrap ($3.75! Milwaukee & Paulina),
Al’s Beef, little size ($4.99! peppers extra, mostly found downtown),
Maxwell’s fries ($1.99! best in the city, mostly found south),
tacos literally anywhere,
literally any gyros,
pizza most anywhere
(DM me about deep dish by the slice; my favorite spot closed awhile back),
and when but in desire unspecific,
David’s Grill, Stevo’s Grill, White Palace Grill, Sunny’s Grill, Moe’s Grill,
literally anybody’s grill as well as anybody’s chicken and fish
and additionally Top Notch,
just please for the love of springtime not Connie’s;
don’t let your coworkers take you to Connie’s;
this is becoming about pizza now;
I digress.
In Brooklyn, bridges’ tongues slurp up to lift you to a peak,
and roller-spit you down into the belly of Manhattan.
The tenement forest touches you as much as the East River did.
In Seattle, Rainier stays grand on the horizon.
You see the peninsula across the water
and you could ferry there on your day off.
In Chicago we just raft the chocolate wafting down from Kinzie.
It blends with the diesel of the Metra engines
and that smell is richest and sweetest under 50 degrees
and stays mysterious for at least your first few years.
There’s rarely glory, but good stories:
I was egged on a 45-minute sprint from Evanston to Logan Square
and didn’t notice til the party cause it hit my helmet. The wind rinsed off most.
Paulo and I stopping at Foodsmart in the dark after class,
one of us watching the bikes
while the other goes in to buy 6 cans of San Pellegrino. We don’t need tea.
It’s finally April; I walk into the BMX shop with handlebars fucked and Logan says,
you got hit again?!
I always get sir’ed in the winter.
I still can’t drive despite the winter.
I still complain in the winter.
I always feel pride in the winter.
In spring I unlearn dickhood, relearn welcoming.
Well look who decided to show up,
and also,
Hi. Let’s be safe together. Individualism is a capitalist pyramid scheme.
May I be not territorial in how I orient.
Meantime let me cherish yet not grasp.
Meantime let this winter start and last.