My bicycle, granny smith green and mud-splattered
stands out on city streets
moving slowly in the right lane
clinging to the curb or the line
of parked cars. I’m out of breath, my legs burning
but the wind blows against me, a sudden gust
rushing down the tunnel created
between high-rise offices and
crumbling apartment buildings.
I feel faster than I am, a racer;
it’s a sprint in the final stretch.
The people on the sidewalks are fans
shouting and waving flags.
Someone yells, “She has
her father’s legs.”
A car honks and races by me.
I’ve stopped; this side of the yellow line
seems narrower than the other.
I’m no racer, but my father’s legs
will carry me home at the pace I choose.