Fat Bottom Bicycle

Sunday, Val and I went for a spring-time ride.  The weather hovered around 0 degrees, and we bundled to accommodate.  He rode his Surly Pugsley, that beast of a bike, that ready for anything brute, that big tired beauty. I rode my trusty Cannondale T800 with winter studded tires.    Towards the end of the ride, we switched bikes.  Val took a picture.

 Look closely, look very closely.  Yes, we have snow still; ignore the plastic bag under my arse (the Brooks must be protected from the slush of spring); skip over the framed faced in layers of wool and nylon; imagine instead, as the venerable Canadian poet, P. K. Page in “The New Bicycle” “How we all adapt ourselves to the bicycle…” 

One senses the change at once

without knowing what one senses.

Has somebody cleaned the windows

used different soap

or is there a bowl of flowers

on the mantelpiece?—

for the air makes another shape

it is thinner or denser

a new design

is invisibly stamped upon it. 

Can you see the smile on my face?  I could not wipe the stupid grin off my face.   I love this fat bottom bicycle.   Val, please tells us more about this amazing vehicle.