three-peat

One morning in May, in my head was a voice,
it seems that sometimes, I have no choice.

Stage Race? Masters? What road should I take?
Fool that I am, I hear the call of the Snake.

Once when I was young and a lot more lean
I could do this one handed, on fifty three sixteen.

Those days are gone, and hills I now lack,
my only altitude on the banks of a track.

If you can't be on top, best make it a game
and ride it again and again and again.

Saddle up with the 40s, and keep a smart pace
no chasing the pros, but find SOMEONE to race.

Eleven laps in the tank, and my day has begun
oh well: twenty-sixth of just thirty-one.

Juice up and hose down, swap numbers, stay clean
find my way to the back row, for laps twelve through eighteen.

Though picking up spots on the climbs and descents,
they whistled us off, "no more for you gents."

Re-pinned and re-juiced, on the line for thirty plus
Turning pedals in anger, finish *this* one I must.

Wheelie! They cried, and the crowd I obliged
but...Manual? Bunny Hop? Oh well, I tried.

At last I approached the line for my bell,
but behind me? The leaders, sprinting like hell!

I pulled up in a track stand off to the side
let them go through, and posted in stride.

But I felt a little cheap, just doing twenty seven
so I rode it once more, until twenty eleven.