The Icy Knuckle by Dman14

The Icy Knuckle
28 degrees and only 7 am,
Just arrived in Odessa and won’t leave till the pm,
Already people are suiting up,
To try and win the race for the cup,
Tons of people yelling “move, watch out, get out of the way,”
No crashes yet, good start to the day,
We are here to play, bought time to start the race,
So cold I can’t even feel my face,
We get all lined up, hands on our heads,
The air horn goes off, “punch it” someone says,
Bike started right up,
Then to the head of the pack,
This dirt is like water so soft and deep,
Makes even the smallest hill feel steep,
The dirt kicks up like waves at the north shore,
This is it, the final lap; I put the throttle to the floor,
Moving up in the pack, after this I’m heading straight for the sack

Super senior (71.217.17.112) -- Thursday, October 25 2007, 05:55 am

Cool poem!
Cool poem. Good way to remember the day. So cold, that the knuckles became "White knuckle." Icy, that even 5 shirts on, wasn't enough, what about the face? The dirt so soft, looks like chocolate powder. Even hot chocalate, wasn't hot enough. How the sack will feel, after a long night, a long day, and another long night without sleep. The final lap, home at last! Safe to sleep, not at the wheel. Cool poem Dman14. I can relate to your poems. Thanks for writing.

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