He said his name was Joe Young.
I teased and called him mighty
When I'd pulled ahead and stopped
To intercept him at a pullout.

His bicycle, encumbered, stem to stern,
By neatly rolled up and tied on bundles,
Seemed too heavy to be pushed,
As he was doing, much less ridden.

He wasn't a young man by any means,
But when I shook his hand, his grip exuded strength;
His eyes full of the merriment that comes only
From a heart that loves life and enjoys living it.

Joe's untrimmed beard covered his face and chest,
Blended at the sides with longish uncut hair.
Whether blond, red, or gray remained a mystery.
His lips, as he spoke, hid behind a wide red mustache.

We sat together on the tailgate of my pickup truck.
Our stories of adventure traveling back and forth.
My own seemed mild compared to his, but when I told my dream,
He laughed aloud in genuine appreciation. He understood.

He went his way, trudging byways, seeing the country, edge to edge.
I drove on, richer for having seen his eyes and heard his voice.
And when I, too, hit the road in months to come,
I pray I’ll cross paths again with mighty Joe Young,
Somewhere in America, living life his way.