The Bike Ride


The Bike RideThe Bike Ride by Martin Hanley

Roaring and kissing the wind, Alone yet alive, the landscape greets you. And then you fall and kiss the asphalt, tears of pain well – in your eyes. And your knees weep; blood seeping. Searing the burn begins –  and you remember; your father once cycled over a hundred miles to see a hurling match: A game – a final, when the world was at war. No petrol.

Copyright © Martin Hanley July 13 2014

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