As I drive home from work, with the evening
sun still beating down hot on the windscreen, I
come to an abhorrent obstruction in the
road, a cyclist the worst site to any driver with
somewhere to go and a finite time
to get there. I was driving down a very
narrow lane following a cyclist that I
knew I couldn't pass when I noticed the cyclist
for the first time, her brown hair dancing across
her shoulders contrasting starkly with the white of
the cotton blouse which tapered down to her
narrow waist before disappearing into
the waist band of her gray checked skirt.
I pondered briefly on the name of the pattern
was it “Hounds tooth, Prince of Wales, then the cloth
stretched tight against her cheeks as she was stood
up in the saddle as we climbed the hill, her long
tanned legs powering her on and her
buttocks reshaped themselves again
and again, I could only imagine what
was happening in front of her out of my
view, then the material was tight against her
curves once more as her bottom perched
back on the saddle and every bump in the road
brought a new quiver to her plaid clad cheeks
and a delicious new tingling to my loins
then all at once the lane ended and she was gone
down a path went the girl and the bike she sat upon
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