Ever get that buzz after a ride where you head spins and your muscles twitch as you replay the details over in your mind? Me too… Channeling this energy into something constructive – other than beer infused conversations at the pub – has become a bit of a pastime for me. The obvious place for all these thoughts and recollections is my notepad, and a lot of the time that’s where they remain. Other times they migrate to the recycling bin, and every so often they end up here in a post, or in my zine, Open Mic. Open Mic 3, like me, is completely devoted to bikes of all kinds, be they the XC, fixie, downhill, vintage, 4X or indeed any other variety. The whole point of the zine, other than acting as a dart board for my reeling mind, is to keep a record of all the rides, races, and general bike shenanigans I have been privileged enough to be apart of. Open Mic 3 is now available on the Candy Cranks shop for $5 plus postage. Check it out.
Here’s one of the pieces from the zine, which is a poetic tribute of sorts to my beautiful 1970′s lady’s speedwell.
Cheers,
Em.
My Ladies Bike and I
Let me introduce my lady;
She upholds style while others are fading.
Ideal for cruising or promenading,
Sheʼs a mixture of chrome and retro-red shading.
I wouldnʼt part with her no matter what you paid me.
She is undeniably ʻclassicʼ, sleek lines with three gears.
Sheʼs more like Audrey Hepburn than Britney Spears.
A joy to peddle, a pleasure to steer,
You wouldnʼt believe sheʼs in her 30th year.
Nothing beats that feeling, the wind through my hair,
As she dances down the footpath like Fred Estair,
Her saddle, a thrown for my derriere.
If she was a car sheʼd be a Chevvy Bel air.
My ladyʼs bike and I make a hell of a pair.
My beautiful bike is ten times a car,
She ushers me through the spiralling paths
And delivers me safe to the front of the bar,
As I pity the drivers that search for a park,
Pollution and headlights illuminating the dark,
Drivers that curse, and engines that bark,
Cars swallowed by traffic, like fish enveloped by sharks.
And when I emerge, a little bit drunk,
She peers up from the footpath with nothing but love.
I straddle her frame armed with infinite trust,
And we bomb down King St. like crims on the run.
This is not transportation, but an act of pure love.
Now weʼre dodging cars, prams and drunks,
Each obstacle swerved is a victory won.
Cars try to pass, but we edge out in front,
Uptight drivers yelling ʻwatch where ya goinʼ, ya cuntʼ.
The ride is wilder than African tiger,
My inhibition is lost but I donʼt bother to find her.
My ladyʼs bike leaves the cars and the city behind her.
We slow down to a roll, homeʼs in our sights,
We surrender ourselves to the depths of night.
She caresses my doorstep, Iʼm still gripping on tight,
As I thank my beauty for one hell of a ride.
Love swells and mingles with admiration and pride;
We are a match made in heaven, my ladyʼs bike and I.
