Help was pointed to after my first beating,
a battlefield I paid to enter.
A friend pointed to a house
I often passed.
Said she would be around.
She became a teacher in a brutal place
full of fierce hunters.


Irritating for sure stressing
rules about table manners
where there are no tables.

My old coach
did everything
so long as she could only be felt.
I joined after meeting her.
She ignored a list that rolled forever.
I quickly became something I’m
still not quite sure of, inside
some days competition other days.


We were more similar
than I give credit for.

A lion in a pack of lions.
Relishing the ability
to pick the moment where our fate rests.
Just the road
and a fierce pack of cyclists
bleeding sweat.
Of holding cards
and praying  for a
moment to play them.
Of waking up at five to race,
watching the sun rise above the trees
and glimpses of the world waking up
around us.

She was there when I
had my first bad crash
She was teaching a session
on sprinting
My world didn’t explode.
It just changed.
Flying through central park.
Lying on a bed
sirens in the background.
“Breath in” as I enter a grey tube.
“I’m fine” as I pull at
bandages on my arm.
She only left me after
I went down to sleep
that night.

So I spun around the track
some laps she was there,
most of the time
she was only felt.

I never did do any
thank you notes.
Always scribbled messily
when they threatened to put a brake on.


A lean powerful
figure with a quiet
bonfire in her eyes,
an Olympian, twice.


I tried to exit gracefully
volunteering to help, though
I have no clue
if I deftly rolled out
or clunked like an elephant.

Yet still despite it,
or maybe because of it
she gave me a final
blessing.

Now I sit hear typing this
next to a passion she showed me,
wishing I could think
about how I left her far before
she went down to sleep.