The Bike Club - a poem

Last week I started a bicycle club ‘cause I was tired of riding alone.

A group of friends was just what I needed; a bicycle club of my own.

So I interviewed a thousand riders but finally I chose only three.

My club would be small but like-minded,

The Boy Scout, Fat Boy, The General and me.

The Boy Scout is The Boy Scout ‘cause he’s always prepared.

He carries extra water, he carries extra food,he carries extra money, he carries extra air.

His bike must weigh about a ton and a half, but The Boy Scout just doesn’t care.

‘Cause who knows what kinds of things might occur when riding from here to there?

He carries doo dads and tools and spare parts and things,most of which he never uses.

But he supposes that someday he might need them at last on those epic 1200K cruises.

He reasons, “Now, what if I broke down two hundred and twelve miles from home;

And the difference between walking and riding that day was an unbreakable black plastic comb?”

The Boy Scout is a rider I want in my club ‘cause when added to the other three,

we become like those French Musketeers,

The Boy Scout, Fat Boy, The General and me.

Fat Boy is Fat boy because he’s, well, fat.

And you’d think that riding a bicycle with us would help him a little with that.

But he can eat a whole pizza for supper with mushrooms and bacon on top

then wash it all down to that super-sized gut with a two liter sugarless pop.

And in the evening if he’s still hungry, and very often he is,

he’ll devour a whole box of Ritz crackers with three cans of Cheddar Cheese Whiz.

The jersey he wears is size “extra-large” and he doesn’t seem to be fit,

and Fat Boy always complains about “bonus miles”

but if he starts the ride, he won’t quit.

Fat Boy is a rider I want in my club ‘cause when added to the other three,

we become like those French Musketeers,

The Boy Scout, Fat Boy, The General, and me.

The General is The General ‘cause he likes having his say.

He chooses the roads that we ride on so that it’s his way AND the highway.

He spends hours looking at road maps trying to plan out our ride.

He considers the road surface and traffic and whether the shoulders are wide.

He constantly monitors the temperature, the wind direction and speed,

the probability of rain, the humidity, and other numbers we need.

Then he puts this all in his computer. The one under his hat - his big brain,

and out pops out the perfect plan for the ride and the plan is the plan come shine or come rain.

The General is a rider I want in my club,‘cause when added to the other three,

we become like those French Musketeers,

The Boy Scout, Fat Boy, The General, and me.

Riding together is easy ‘cause the four of us seem to be one.

If anyone has an unspoken thought it’s no sooner not said than it’s done.

So if The General sees that the forecast was wrong and the wind is now blowing from the south,

we’ll change the direction that we plan to ride before the thought even comes from his mouth.

(The General likes to start facing the wind so that when we’re tired the wind will be

blowing behind us, helping us home.

The Boy Scout, Fat Boy, The General, and me.)

Or sometimes Fat Boy will start to poop out if the pace is too fast for too long.

So we ease up and go slow to stay as a group ‘cause if you belong to this club, you belong.

And when trouble comes, as it often does, with no warning or chance to prepare.

The Boy Scout rides up with all of his stuff and the whole club is glad that he’s there.

If it’s a flat needing fixed, or a seat bolt that’s loose, or a piece of bar tape that’s just flapping.

He has two kinds of air, wrenches to spare and duct tape that’s just right for wrapping.

Although we might start out with others, it usually ends up just us.

So when we’re climbing the hills or holding the curves or motor pacing a big GreyHound bus,

we know we can count on each other, Through the thickest and thinnest it will be

a club where all the riders have the same name,

The Boy Scout, Fat Boy, The General, and me.