Don’t talk to me about E bikes.
None of them accommodate
my extremely short legs, not short
for a Scottish Pict, but too short for the E bike.
I’m assigned the kid’s bike and advice to keep
my power setting at “turbo.” Thirty-eight kilometers
to the Black Forest, along river trails, through suburbs,
across asparagus fields, up quaint mountain lanes.
I pedal like the old witch in The Wizard of Oz,
fast, leaning over handlebars that
keep sliding downward into their shaft.
I pedal like the fierce Pict that I am.
I ride to the top of the ruin, to the bistro
for a birthday lunch, to the farm for schnapps.
The humid heat climbs into the nineties.
I am now seventy-two, but I keep pedaling.