God on a Bike

A poem by Pat Winslow

God on a bike going twenty miles and hour
over speed ramps, ignoring the pinch-space
cars that would topple him, helmetless
and roaring at road-ragers, mobile phone users,
the guess-where-I'm-going school of motorist.
His long white beard parts in the wind.

God speed, God. He stops at red lights
if he has to, but prefers to sail through.
Lycra shorts in all weathers, hairy legs,
pistoning past churches and bingo halls.
God on a bike is good news. He knows
when to apply severe body torque.

God's a rock hopper, a weekend mud churner,
a star on wheels. He can fix a puncture
in five minutes flat, slalom through gravel,
go twenty-four hours without sleeping.
He's the captain of the Cat and Fiddle,
Box Hill, C2C. He's a mashed gear man.

God cycles forty days and forty nights
alone in the wilderness. He stokes up
on Mars Bars, forks more transport cafe
breakfasts, smokes more fags than I could.
He's a seven-day wonder. The whole world
in a week. That's God the father.

Son Jesus does his own repairs, prefers
Reynolds tubing. He's had the same frame
for thirty odd years. He wears toe clips
that bruise his feet - that's
what comes of wearing sandals.
A chain guard keeps his robes clean.

There's a silver bell he rings each time
he rounds a bend in case of donkeys
or a man carrying a bed. Jesus on a bike
does the shopping. Bread and fish fingers,
a little wine. Abstemious Jesus with hair
in a ponytail under a kitemarked helmet.

There's an orange flag on a stick to warn
drivers to stay clear. Jesus isn't fearful
just careful. He carries batteries and cables,
a cape for bad weather. He's chairman of a club.
Twelve good mates. Though one's a bit suspect.
Drives a car that cost thirty thou. Flash git, Judas.