The Cyclewoman
The wind was a torrent of rain down the Burnside road,
The sky was a slate-grey sheet, and the night left a heavy load,
The Willamette ran dark and deep beneath the bridge's span,
And Bess came riding, riding, riding--
Bess came riding along the bike lane.
Her helmet was buckled tight beneath her lifted chin,
Her rain jacket pressed to her body where the cold crept in,
Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead, the painted line her guide,
And the city rose up around her--
The city on every side.
She knew every crack in the asphalt, every door that swung too wide,
Every merge where the trucks came heavy and the mirrors clipped beside,
She had learned them all the hard way, in the language of the near,
In the catch of breath, the swerving--
In the aftertaste of fear.
The light on Burnside held her, and the rain came sheeting down,
And the cars pressed close behind her with their engines' patient sound,
She felt them there, she always felt them, restless at her back,
Like something dark and waiting--
Like something on her track.
And still she came riding, riding, riding--
Still she came riding along the bike lane.
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot went the tires on the glistening street,
The rhythm of her breathing and the rhythm of her feet,
A dog came hard from a gateway, and the world collapsed to sound--
She pulled left, she felt the wobble--
Then found the ground.
She lay a breath in the rainwater, the cold against her face,
And the traffic parted slowly, giving just enough of space,
She rose, she checked her hands, her knees, she lifted up the bike,
And she came riding, riding, riding--
She came riding, as she always did. Alike.
For no one gives you a medal for arriving safe to work,
For threading every danger, for the swerve and for the jerk,
The city does not see her, and the city does not mourn--
But she comes riding, riding, riding--
She comes riding through the rain, and through the storm.
Poem by Scott J. Hunter.