Poetry, Mountain Biking, Creativity

Focus

A poem from the mountain bike

Focus. Weave. Cross over here. You’re sliding. Breathe. Stay on the trail.

That rut’s grown deep from winter’s rains. From mud to sand, spring’s new terrain.

I’m sailing now through mustard fields. I sit up high. It feels like flying.

And then the hay, it catches light and waves like water up to my thighs.

And in the breeze, the daisies dance. And sage, it whispers nightfall’s song.

But look, a white-tailed rabbit bounds. A skittered flight. I give him space.

And here, a rattler’s crossed the trail, a slithered story left in dust.

The creekside trail now drops away and tumbled rocks have stopped me cold. The riverbed’s impassable. I walk my bike for just a bit.

And then, I’m on. Again, I ride. Focus, breathe. Stay on the bike.

Poetry and mountain biking — who would have thought it a likely pair? But my best work often comes when I am out on the trails at the end of the day. I think it is the “single-pointed focus” of just staying on the bike in certain spots that allows poetry to slip in. This year, my regular trails have all been altered by the torrential California rains. Where, once, I used to know the trail by heart, I now have to pay a little more attention to the ruts and riverbeds and downhill bits.

The gloaming is my favorite time of day to be out on the bike. It’s the hour when the light hangs low over the land and the wind whispers through the hay and mustard. It’s also when the birds are worked up into a bit of a frenzy because they know that night is coming. The soft hum of bees reverberates through the descending chill.

It’s also when the road runners, rabbits, rattlesnakes and lizards are out and about. They tend to dash across the trail right in front of me and freeze for just a panicked moment. I’ll stop and give them space to cross (especially the rattlers!).

I often start out my rides listening to an audible book. But once I get to the wild parts, I put my headphones away and try to just listen to what the muse might (or might not) have to say that day. I’ve taken to using the voice memo feature on my iPhone to record what I hear. And it truly is “hearing.” If I just wait a while and remain a vessel for her words, they mostly come. I love to save these and to listen to them later, to be able to hear the sounds of the wilderness around me as the poem was forming.

This time of year, the mustard has erupted from every nook and cranny, crowding out the “superbloom.” It really does feel like flying when you are sailing down a trail and the mustard is up to your ears.

And the rattlers are out and about, soaking in the late afternoon heat. You have to really pay attention in those tight bits of the the trail. There are certain sections that I avoid for a couple of months because you really can’t see the trail well enough to know if you are about to have an unexpected encounter.

The hay, so green just a few weeks ago, has started to turn golden. This is one of my favorite ridges because the sun “back lights” the grasses.

And this particular section of the trail seems to be a place where the muse lives. I cannot even begin to count the number of times I’ve stopped here with either a pen and notebook or my voice memo to capture a poem.

These are a few other poems that have been recently born here (you might recognize some of the terrain in the words):

Erika Burkhalter is a yogi, neurophilosopher, cat-mom, photographer, and lover of travel and nature, spreading her love and amazement for Mother Earth’s glories, one photo, poem, or story at a time. (MS Neuropsychology, MA Yoga Studies).

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Photos and story ©Erika Burkhalter. All rights reserved.