It's time to suit up and head out in the night.
I've brought my arm warmers and red, blinky light.
They're all that I have now to keep safe and warm,
to help me to manage to weather the storm.
Flash go the headlamps and now I can see
a few dozen others as crazy as me.
A few dozen others who haven't a clue
of what this thing is that they're going to do.
Once out in the silence we slip through the night
and fall into paceline and fall out of sight.
Of civilization, of safety and and more
and into the realm of the deadly unsure.
But what if I freeze in the blistering cold
or what if my chain is just simply too old
and it snaps and then what if i run out of food
or go through the last of my extra spare tubes?
What if my dérailleur decides to break off
or what if a spoke just flies off with a pop
and leaves me here stranded all freezing and stark,
and leaves me to die the chill of the dark?
Or what if it's me that just simply can't take
all the hills and the climbs and I'm just not in shape.
And I cramp and I fall on the black of the road
and there's no one there watching to pick up my load?
Oh why would I ride here, ride out in the cold
knowing my gear or my body might fold?
And who in their right mind would ride out this far
in the dead of the night on the steel on the tar?
Maybe its pride or its envy or vane
or maybe, just maybe I just like the pain.
But when it comes down to the truth its just fear,
fear of the small little voice that I hear.
The voice that just lingers inside of my head
and says if I try that I'll surely be dead.
The voice that just tells me how I'm always wrong,
and that I will fail and I've failed all along
And tells me that I'd never come home alive
if I were to go on this bicycle ride.
So I've got to, I'm off and I'm going to go.
I'm going to ride and I'm going to show
that voice who's the boss of this life that I live.
I'll show who takes orders and I'll show who gives.
And, maybe, you know that the voice could be right,
And maybe I'll never return home tonight.
Yes maybe I'll shiver or suffer or die,
but I'll never wonder what could have been mine.
But if I don't return then at least you'll all know
that I road the ride,
the ride.. called Dynamo.
poem by Pat Kennel