The Sunday Boys Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

this saddle is too big
for wheels so thin
will they notice
those Sunday boys?

my bike is a mirror
to me, and I should
be allowed
eccentricity
if it looks right
it is right,
the saying goes
but what will they make of it
the Sunday boys?

fearless down lanes
big with hedges
past the vicar
polite conversation
flowery hats
the tolling bell
and creaking congregation
they take on hills
as if opening the book

its a matter of pride
when out for a ride
that you get a nod
from the Sunday boys
that the bike has a look
Italian or Belgian
a machine ridden
on the Tour de France
they can tell at a glance
when something is
out of place
the peleton of
the Sunday boys.

They are on you
swarm,
clicking
wheel-swishing
then gone
a commuter
with ankle clips and bag
is a creature from outer space
nor will straight handlebars
get a nod
its the nod that counts
the nod from the Sunday boys
that says you're in not out.