Gone

Words and photo by John McComisky.
Morrison sung “Summers almost gone” ‘Cross season is solid gone for me.
From the last flickering, flagging scrap of race tape dying on a pole.
The final tattooed, henna scrawl on parkland, inked by heaving, gasping breath.
Cyclocross to me is racing.
The anticipation, the pre-ride, this ridiculous pursuit of nailing portage.
I can now ride my bike without the additional company of others, not racing, not waiting for the bell lap, and just riding my bike.
It is only Spring, and I am pining for the Fall and the damp, black earthy scent of soil in my throat and lungs.
The Autumnal crunch under wheels, and that low orange glow and fading light that signals that Summers almost gone.