I read a study today,
It basically said,
Elite endurance athletes
Think about the race,
The tactics, they cues their body is sending
While
Amateurs think about
Everything else with a drifting mind
That can’t seem to focus
On the strategy, the plan, the reason for being.

Okay, I read, even made a note
About focusing on the particulars of
Whatever it is I’m doing,
Swimming, biking, or running
Because my amateur ass won’t finish
If I let my mind wander
To all the stuff that floats
In my gray matter.

Fully aware, I made a mistake,
Sharing my intentions for an impromptu ride
One of many hours
Because what else am I going to do
On a frigid Friday afternoon when I was gifted
With a bit of free time.
Saddled up, fan on, timer going, I started.
Mr. Shelby and his brother Arthur
Made mayhem in season five.
I was struck by the religious symbolism of several scenes,
“Gotta remember to write that down, brilliant angle.”
The smell of barbecue wafted down the basement stairs
Allowing my stomach to send signals
That hunger was on its way.
Then I realized my butt was aching,
My legs were tired, the sweat was dripping hard,
Exams were over, the sauna is gross,
But it’s not as bad as the steam,
I’ll risk the dry heat. The food, the food, the food.

Seventy-minutes in, done.
A couple of hours short.

Amateur.

Trying to be a radical is tough
I’m not political junkie, nor
Do I have any spiritual absoluteness,
But I am getting older, love food and beverages, and
Wanting of better living habits.

I’m not the type to put it on others,
Too often I don’t stand up for myself,
Against myself,
Giving in to the temptation of cinnamon sugar
Or smooth beverages from around the region.

Perhaps the test is not cleaning plates,
Washing the palette, or
Absorbing into the coach.
Maybe this really about my transformation
Into an assertive person.

A person who knows
How to say no.
One who acts on the plans
So enthusiastically put together, but
Often hijacked by my radical approach, given where I live.

It will be one o’clock pm before I eat again
That’s the price for finishing the cinnamon sticks
The kids left while I was out.
Dumb, weak me,
All I had to do was throw them away
Instead of ignoring that change voice yelling in my ear.

Tough times ahead…

I hear Bernard was able
To break the cycle of violence
By committing fully to boxing.

They say he
Left it all behind
With a discipline that never wavers.

I’m loving my summer vacation
Stuck in the pleasure of peace
Untouched by the flaw,

My imperfection where
I want to make a point,
Driving home some zinger.

I heard his message
Of being right by not being,
By just going with the flow

Because problems are bigger
For others than anything
I’ve ever manufactured.

Then came August,
The last few weeks before returning
And something happened,

Shoulder pains, neck pains
Ridiculous dreams and
A renewed interest in protest songs.

I’m on my bicycle, Bernard,
Staying away from the corners by
Bobbing and weaving

Against those old habits
I let go during this summer respite,
My time of change.