Septuagenarian Cyclists

 

Surfing the undulating B roads;

Tyres slicing surface dust

Like a skaters blade through frosted ice,

A trio of old men -

Septuagenarian cyclists

Pump determinedly on.

Fleshless bottoms struggle to fill the

Still baggy lycra shorts

That on younger men would be bulging.

Chewy, tightly balled calves

Encased beneath turkey skin flex with

Each cadenced rotation,

One step ahead of Father Time and

His bonily beckoning finger.

Teeth gritted, eyes focused

They measure out the precious minutes

Of longed for retirement

In turns of the pedal, gear change clicks.

Too fast, too close, a car

Passes; arsehole driver beeps, yelling

GET OFF THE ROAD, WANKERS!

They roll on, unruffled, dignified,

And I think keep going, God bless you.