Amore Infinito

Week Three Poem Recap

Dane Hamann

Sunshine and lakewater cede to green, forested slopes. Across open expanses, the mountains fade to blue and then to white in the humid air. The horizon obscured as if filled by puffs of steamy smoke. What do you call a slowly ascending firework? A bike race, perhaps. Sometimes, you must wait a long time for those explosions of color and sound. But when the fuse is lit, the race rockets forward as if fired from a mortar. Crowds burst into manic energy as the riders pierce their tunnels of shaking arms, snapping flags, and general roar as a dozen languages blend into a single sentiment of Go! Go! Go! Riders duel in front of bright motorbike lights and crackling engines. The tightly packed group begins to disintegrate as riders blink out like extinguished stars. They cling to each other’s wheels from the scintillating speed of the ascent. None can hide from the steep gradients. Our eyes fix on the last lingering climbers. Their eyes fix on the summit finish, the promise of bonus time, and reordered jersey standings.

—

The photo shows front tires
piercing the black and white
finish line like trident prongs.

But before the three threw
their bikes in bleary-eyed
exhaustion, they danced

around the road like bees
freed from the speeding swarm,
probing for gaps of daylight.

The downhill day was fast,
and mostly by-the-book.
A cat-and-mouse game

of sprint squads stretching
the peloton into a long string,
the small breakaway without

hope on dry roads. Beach
umbrellas aligned to spell
town names and IL GIRO

along the wide strips of sand.
Beside the Adriatic, a sprint
victory brings cathartic normality.

—

Rising like ancient spearheads, the gray Dolomites stab into the sky.

Today, though, the blue beyond does not bleed rain but rather light.

The bright peaks, immovable and always dominant, loom over the roads.

A few things are as dependable as the craggy, snow-stroked mountains.

Heartbreak, for one.

The passage of time, another.

This is often the story for the peloton. For specific riders.

Bike racing is about consistently losing.

Form. Youth. The wheel. The race.

Anything fleeting. Or ephemeral. The loss is as sure as the tick of the clock.

And so they turn the pedals.

They go up the road, fans running chaotic lines alongside.

Loyal lieutenants subtly put down the power, and the race becomes as jagged as the massifs.

They unzip not only jerseys but also quadriceps, shred their lungs in search of victory.

Perhaps pyrrhic. Every gain is also a loss.

For a short time, the domestiques duel with each other, shedding almost every other contender, widening the race’s final gap.

When those reliable mountain goats pull to the grassy verge of the narrow road, the veteran leaders chase each other to the clouds.

This is often the story of how the race was won.

Despite heartbreak. Despite age.

—

Of course the skies couldn’t resist
one last cloudburst on the last climb

of the hardest mountain day.
It had been such a nice hike.

Some sun, some clouds. All shades
of green blanketing the ascent,

until the tree line broke into rock
and alpine meadow. Fingers of

snowpack lingering as if winter
was desperately clawing at the stone.

The rain came down fat and heavy,
ricocheting off of the riders’ shoulders

and helmets as if they were motors,
overloaded and letting off sparks.

Again, the duty of revving up the pace
fell to faithful teammates. And ahead,

more breakaway heroics whipped
the crowds into a frenzy. The barren peak

teeming with multicolor life. One last
raucous attack to shake away seconds.

—

The road is at its most beautiful,
perhaps, when a rider is alone.

The wind flows as words do,
so soothing to the heart that

anything seems possible. A wall
of noise rises like the silent

trees or mountains themselves.
Sheer speed forces a tear

from the windward corner
of the eye. The seconds melt

into the skin, in the way of sunlight.
The body offers salt in return.

It is a time to be everything
and nothing. To let it all pass

through oneself or to become
the sum of present and past.

The road parts for the solitary
rider, whose eyes focus deep within.

This brave, painful loneliness is
bike racing at its most intimate.

—

It’s the golden hour
in the Eternal City.
The light plays
with buildings both
modern and ancient
as if they were toys.

A bike is many things.
Vehicle. Job. Toy, too.
Riding one is joyful.
It can be hard: days
of strip-mined muscles,
earthquake heartbeats.

The gamble of a bike race,
the throw of the dice.
Illness can place an anvil
around the shoulders.
A crash can shatter
both bike and body.

But in the end, the bike
is beloved. It cuts through
the air much like the wind
moves through the trees.
A toy, sure. But ageless.
Leaves will never not know

wind’s force. The stories
of redemption and goodbyes
will never not catch and float
into hearts. Not even this will be
the end. The bike always writing
a letter of an infinite love.