Elevation Climb
Laura Madeline Wiseman
They rarely arrive in mass, more often one by one.
At the height of the morning, at the height of the ride,
every foot of altitude gain making the brain higher
higher, even the wind seems to push them upward
like a firm pat on a bottom, like a hand of love.
It’s how they always do it. It’s the delirious burn
of thighs after the last granny gears, the shake of hands
that grip old friends. There’s always enough air.
When they crest it, when the expanse appears,
when they see the others breathing deeply there,
they share in the looking, the tall tales, the brags
of faulty gear, lack of fuel, no services anywhere at all
while the ocean finally beats on the shore with applause.
At the height of the morning, at the height of the ride,
every foot of altitude gain making the brain higher
higher, even the wind seems to push them upward
like a firm pat on a bottom, like a hand of love.
It’s how they always do it. It’s the delirious burn
of thighs after the last granny gears, the shake of hands
that grip old friends. There’s always enough air.
When they crest it, when the expanse appears,
when they see the others breathing deeply there,
they share in the looking, the tall tales, the brags
of faulty gear, lack of fuel, no services anywhere at all
while the ocean finally beats on the shore with applause.