Summer Regression

It is an exceptionally,
warm Friday, and I
ditch work to go for a
bike ride.
Destination, beach.
Just five guys
with no shirts
pumping their bikes
with reckless abandon
long since forgotten.
Energy released from
the tombs of memory.
Bodies white from a long winter
stretch towards the sun.
Starved flowers of youth.
And the road stretches out
like days of old
when bikes were the norm
and work was for dads.
I grin at my deception.
The miles tick off
but the afternoon stays,
holding it's breath
just for us.
Small mound of dirt
warrent death defying acts,
and rubber is left behind
in a rock pile skid.
We're all smiling.
"I'm 21 years old!"
I yell at the heat hazed sky,
wondering if I mean it.
Not today.
I laught at myself.
Silly kid.
Suddenly I'm flying
down a hill
with the world doing
all the work.
No hands.
and a glance at my
wrist brings a thought
of work.
Not today.
No hands.
Silly kid.
I have to get to the beach.